


My Space?

by Sensue



Series: No Chick Flick Moments [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brotherhood AU, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Sick Dean Winchester, Sickfic, Social Media
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:55:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28356594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sensue/pseuds/Sensue
Summary: Dean discovers MySpace, with an unforeseen consequence. Crossroad Blues Tag and BUABS. Ridley's Brotherhood AU Characters will make an appearance.
Series: No Chick Flick Moments [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2076609
Kudos: 3





	My Space?

Dean sat in front of the new laptop computer that Sam had acquired for them. He flipped open the screen, blinking as the bright LED display lit up his corner of the room. He shot a glance over at his brother's bed, sighing quietly in relief.

This was one mission that he didn't need help with, especially his geek boy little brother.

I mean, come on, he thought, not everyone lives on the internet as Sammy-boy does. I mean, so what? So, I don't know what the hell 'My Space' is? It's probably some little site that only geeks visit.

He logged on to the system using their mother's birthday as the password. Waiting, he glared at the "Welcome" screen as the Windows XP based software began to load slowly. The loud chime that indicated that everything had loaded correctly had been previously muted, thank god, by Sam the night before. Rolling his eyes through the 'Would you like to update your system?' messages, he clicked them off and waited for the hard drive indicator to calm its blinking.

Finally, after what seemed like all night, he was able to click on the Internet Explorer. He stared at the Google home page, then thought better of it. When in doubt, Dean thought, Ask Jeeves!

Placing the mouse on the address bar, he highlighted the Google address to type in the www address for "Hey," Dean said, then quickly slapped a hand across his mouth, before making sure that Sam hadn't been startled awake. Huh, I wonder where the old guy in the suit disappeared to? He was always on this site before… I wonder when they changed that.

The search bar was the only thing on the damn page now. Well, I'll miss that old guy. He quickly typed out "What is My Space?" in the search bar, and only after a half a second hesitation, pressed "Search".

Dean's mouth flew open for the second time as he discovered that the search was "Showing results 1-10 of 155,650,000". What the freaking hell?

He took a deep breath, gearing up to giving himself a pep talk. Okay, Dean, you can do this. You DO NOT need Sammy to search for a website. The first answer was strange…what the hell is a Cubensis friend anyway? The second and third were literally about space, and for some odd reason, The Food Network. Ah, he thought, its lucky number four! 'MySpace - Meet people from your area in the country and keep in touch. Includes blog, forums, email, groups, games, and events.'

Okay, I get the meeting people part and keeping in touch, but what's a blog? Or in that matter a forum? A forum for what? Well, there's only one way to find out…

He clicked on the link in hopes of finding more clues. That only led to more frustration, because every link led to the exact same place… Join MySpace here.

Rubbing at his chin, he was about to give up—he just wasn't as good as Sam with these things. Sam! Sammy's probably got one of these accounts. He clicked on "Log-in" filling out Sam's email address and of course, his usual password: Thundercats. Smirking at his little brother… only he could have the same password since the age of ten.

He frowned as he stared at the site. The thing was colorful, had lots of pictures. There was a section for "Friends Only", of course. The last update was –yesterday? No way? Seriously? Whatever…

Searching through the rest of the page, he'd laugh when he read a funny comment one of his geek boy friends wrote. He scanned the page, picking up many things to rag his little brother about. He was laughing quietly, reading the shit that Sam and his 'friends' from Stanford University discussed. Ivy League, my ass, Dean laughed. You'd think these losers were from the Bimbo's School of Drop Outs.

One "entry" was from months ago, he guessed it was called was labeled "Adults Only…Not for the faint of heart." Ha! I knew it. It is a porn site! Dean shot a look at his baby brother. So much for the goody-goody attitude; I always knew he was a closet- pervert.

He clicked on the link. There were over twenty comments made on the image that was loading slowly.

Sitting back, he began reading the comments made. Hell, by the time I get finished reading all of this—the damn picture will finally download completely.

User comments:

Dhampir72: YOU TOOK PICTURES?! AHAHAHA! -Huh.

Redwinged Blackbird: That's horrible!

JPFan: hahahahaha. NAKED PICTURES! LMFAO! LMFAO-?Is that some nerd language?

Halcyon Impulse: That's Hilarious. -What's hilarious?

Lady FoxFire: Hey Sam! Can I get a copy of that photo? He's HOT! ? – HE'S HOT? Why the fuck would Sam have pictures of naked guys? Shit.

Rose Carter: omg, the picture on your cell phone...I have no words except one...brilliant! lol

JadeAlmasy: LOL I feel so sorry for him! Can I nurse him back to health? -What the hell?

TangledPencils: I nearly peed myself laughing. -Hurry up you stupid computer! Just load the damn picture!

SpookyClaire: And the tom cruise dude, that freak is NUTS was great! I was laughing my ass off!

Psychokittyuk: Awesome! Love the NAKED photos you have, Sam!  
Maybe you can send them to me, too! ;) -Wonder if Sam's got her number…

LeanneB: I was totally feeling the brotherly love and it all goes flying out the window! lol :) -huh?  
StealerofDreams: You are such a perve! Eww. -Hee!

-more comments-

He moved the scroll bar up to the top again to read what Sam had originally posted. "This is what happens when you tick me off. Warning: Don't Do It. Or I'll find you…" There was a picture of a fake-red-headed chick kneeling down in a bathroom, wagging her finger at a guy in boxer shorts sitting on the crapper.

Dean's brow furrowed with confusion. I still don't get this frigin' site.

Finally, he pulled the scrollbar down so that he could see this picture everyone was laughing about.

It's a naked guy on the crapper.

He blinked at it a few more times, before the man's face finally registered. He literally felt the blood flow out of his face…the same face that was plastered on the internet, naked on a crapper!

For a moment, he couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do a single thing but stare at the screen in complete horror. He felt a myriad of emotions: shame, embarrassment, anger, fear, pain, and betrayal.

The memory was blurry in his mind, but he remembered that he'd been really sick. Sam had told him that he nearly took him to the hospital…he was nearly delirious with fever. And Sam had—he'd taken care of him. Both of them fought, but in the end, Dean let go; he trusted Sam to care for him when he was down. How could he do this?

Staring at the still sleeping form, he did what he always did when his brother hurt him.

He shut down.

-XXXXXXXXX-

Sam stared out the window, watching the world pass by. He couldn't possibly believe how bad things had gotten. He murdered an innocent man, nearly raped and/or killed Jo, and beat the only person left that he called family into a bloody pulp.

Dean kept telling him that it wasn't his fault; after all, he was possessed by a demon-bitch. Sam wanted with all of his heart to believe his big brother—Dean had raised him, protected him, hell, he knew him better than he knew himself. But this time, even his hero couldn't protect him from the reality of the horror he'd caused.

And Dean…He couldn't really explain it, perhaps it was just that Dean was tired, or that he'd been scared that he'd have to kill the person who he'd practically raised.

He didn't know what, but something was off about big brother this time—more than any other time before, even after their father's sacrifice. Sam thought back, almost desperate to put at least one mystery to rest and it shocked him as to how simple the answer really was.

Dean's MO during an emotional moment was to immediately make a stupid joke out of whatever was bothering him. That was, Sam discovered, Dean's coping mechanism. The only time he'd broken that habit was after their father's death—anger took its place. It was one of the only times in Sam's life that he actually feared his brother. But this—this was something else entirely. Dean hadn't spoken a word in nearly three hours.

Forcing his gaze away from the endless cornfields, he turned to look at Dean again. Dean's posture hadn't changed in the past three hours. He sat tensely, one hand clenched around the steering wheel while the other lay in his lap.

Sam frowned; this wasn't like his brother at all.

Back at Bobby's, Dean had insisted on Bobby bandaging his arm. The damn fire poker nearly gave him a third-degree burn. Luckily for him, it had only blistered, bled, and hurt like a son of a bitch.

Dean, though, refused any treatment—backing away from any attempt to check him over. Sam watched in open shock as his brother fled to the bathroom when he tried to help him. The only thing he accepted was the ice pack Bobby had handed him for his face.

"I'm fine, Sammy." He growled out. "Leave it alone."

Sam sat in the kitchen, trying not to be obvious, as he anxiously waited for his brother to re-appear.

Once he'd returned, Sam tried to get him to tell him exactly what had happened. He even used the, as Dean so eloquently remarked, the 'puppy-dog' eyes. Nothing. Nada. Dean didn't even blink.

It wasn't even a half-hour later that he just announced to Bobby that he and Sam were going to take off before hunters came after them. From that point on, Dean had been sitting there as if nothing had happened.

Unexpectedly, Dean took the nearest exit and started to drive towards the giant neon "motel" signs they both could have spotted a mile away. The car entered the parking lot quickly swinging into a parking spot and then Dean climbed out without speaking a single word.

Sam waited in the car for twenty minutes before deciding that Dean wasn't planning on coming back to get him. He climbed out, going over to the office to ask which room his brother had rented. The clerk handed him the other key, then pointed him in the direction of the room.

Taking a deep breath, Sam opened the door –honestly, he had no idea what would be waiting for him on the other side. He'd had this sick feeling that Dean was waiting for them to be alone before deciding to just beat him up for all of the things he'd put him through. It was anticlimactic to discover that Dean wasn't even in the room, but in the bathroom hidden away in the corner.

"Dean?" Sam called out, walking over to knock on the door. "Are you okay?"

"Fine."

The one-word answer did nothing to comfort him, but Sam reluctantly went back to the car to get their supplies. It was the least he could do.

It had taken several trips, but the car was secured, and their supplies safely hidden away in the motel room. He pulled out the salt, meticulously checking the lines of the doorways and windows to make sure that no spirit could enter.

He was changing into a pair of sweat pants and a T-shirt when Dean finally came out of the bathroom. Dean had changed into a pair of jogging shorts and a long sleeve shirt. He looked absolutely exhausted as he climbed into his bed, and proceeded to pull the covers over his head.

"Dean?" Sam called out, walking over to the side of his bed and sitting on the edge. "Dean, are you alright?"

He reached out a hand, but the movement was aborted as Dean turned away from him, rolling over to face the other side of the bed.

"Alright," Sam swallowed. Obviously, Dean didn't want to talk to him. "Good night, Dean."

He went over to his bed, climbed in, and turned off the lights. Before falling asleep he gave a quick prayer. "Please, God," he whispered, "let this be over soon."

Knock

Knock

Knock

"Arhh." Sam moaned. "Who the hell's knocking?"

Knock

Knock

"Uhh, Dean!" He glanced at the other bed. Dean wasn't moving, so he reluctantly climbed out of his warm bed to get to the door.

Grabbing the nearest weapon, which happened to be a dagger, he cracked open the door.

It only took half a second for him to open it completely, the dagger nearly falling from his grasp.

"Caleb! Mac! What are you doing here?"

-xxxxxxxxx-

Caleb Reaves and his father, Dr. Mackland Ames stood in front of the dingy motel room door, waiting for the boys inside to open up. When a second had passed without an answer, Caleb nearly kicked the door open; only his father's light grasp on his shoulder kept him from running in there.

He glanced at his father for a moment before returning his gaze towards the door, wishing that his half-demon side would've also included melting doors along with his psychic ability.

Bobby had called his father and informed him that the Winchesters were in trouble, again. He told them of the demon who'd possessed Sam and the crimes that she/it made him do—turning him into nothing but a puppet to control at its will. As he'd explained, Bobby couldn't help keep the worry out of his voice as he described Sam's burns—Dean on the other hand—Bobby said that he'd never heard Dean scream like that. 'Mac. Caleb.' Bobby said, while both of them listened on speakerphone, 'I think there's something wrong with Dean. It's been my experience with him that the worse he's hurt, the more he hides it, and the quieter he becomes…and I'm telling you, he's hurt real bad and Sam's head isn't in the right place to help him. I think that you should check on them—fast.'

It'd taken much of their resources to track the two down to a run-of-the-mill motel in the middle of nowhere, but when Caleb spotted Dean's baby, he couldn't help but release a sigh of relief at the sight of the car. A little more investigation found that they were in Room 181.

Mac grabbed his well-stocked medical bag from the car and followed his adopted son to the door. He waited patiently for one of them to open it, resting his hand on Caleb's shoulder to calm him when he'd moved to kick it open.

The door opened a few seconds later, Sam at the door with a dagger in his hand. Mac gave the boy a small smile when he'd nearly dropped it in his surprise.

"Caleb! Mac! What are you doing here?"

Caleb gave Sam a grin, slapping him on the shoulder before walking into the room. "We were in the area, and I remembered that Dean owed me a pizza."

Mac followed his son inside, shutting the door softly behind him. Sam still stood at the doorway; he looked exhausted. Mac's eyes scanned the young man for any obvious injuries. Stopping, he focused on the bandage covered forearm. Gently, he grasped Sam's uninjured hand and pulled him further into the room until they reached the table. He pulled out the chair and quickly settled Sam into it.

"Sam? Son, are you alright?" He asked as he slowly started peeling the tape and gauze off the burn.

Sam blinked a few times, finally noticing that Dr. Ames was in front of him. "Sorry, Mac. I, ahh, I'm just tired. It's been a long day…" He hissed when Mac started cleaning the wound.

"So, I guess Bobby called you," Sam stated matter-of-factly.

Mac finished dressing the wound, smiling at his comment. "Yes, Bobby called. He was pretty worried about you boys. He said that there was some trouble—that you'd been possessed by a demon."

Sam's face paled. He didn't bother to respond; there was nothing he could say or do that would make the situation any better.

Mac gently squeezed his shoulder, trying to be understanding.

"Dad!" Caleb shouted from Dean's bedside, "Come here."

Immediately, Mac moved from Sam's side to Dean's. Sam followed behind him, running to get to his brother.

"Dean?" Sam called out as he pushed past Mac to sit at his brother's side. "Dean, what's wrong?"

Dean refused to answer, instead turning to face the other way—away from his brother. Sam grabbed his shoulder in an attempt to turn him back around. The sharp scream was muted as Dean pushed his face into the pillow. Sam jumped at the sound. "Dean?" Flinching, he pulled his hand back quickly.

Mac gently pushed him away to examine his brother. Sam watched as Dean's shirt turned blood red in a few seconds. Sam stared in horror at the stain that grew, the memory of holding a gun in his hand, pointing it at his brother, the feel of the recoil…Jumping up, Sam ran to the bathroom; the sounds of vomiting could be heard throughout the room.

Mac only glanced at the bathroom door; his main concern was the injured young man: bleeding, bruised, feverish, and unvocal. "Caleb, please, go check on Sam."

Caleb looked at Dean, then looked back at the door where his best friend's brother was ill—Caleb knew that he'd put his little brother first, always. He nodded, "Okay," then walked to the bathroom.

Mac grabbed his medical bag; the bandage that had been taped on Dean's shoulder was now soaked through with blood. He gently peeled away the remaining shreds of gauze, taking care not to disrupt a blood clot, only to find a neat bullet sized hole in his shoulder. "Damn it, Dean…" Mac softly swore at the tell-tale signs of infection already festering in the wound. "Sam must've reopened the wound when he grabbed you. Why the hell didn't you tell anyone?!" Pulling out a few new four-by-four packages, he placed the sterile gauze on the wound and held it tightly in an attempt to stop the bleeding.

Dean groaned softly at the pain the pressure was causing but didn't speak; his face was still buried within the pillow. "Dean? Son, can you hear me?"

He answered with a small grunt.

Mac frowned at his lack of communication. "Dean, is your throat bothering you?"

The body beneath his hand started to tremble, making the worry he'd felt since trying to find the boys escalate. "Caleb!" Mac called out to his son; he'd need his help in order to help Dean.

Caleb flew out of the bathroom, panicked, "Dad? Is Deuce okay?"

Mac bit his lip, "He hasn't spoken since we arrived—he's trembling now…" He huffed slightly, "Help me with him."

Caleb nodded, "Okay, dad. What do you want me to do?"

"Hold him; try to keep him warm—and most importantly, see if he'll respond to you; if he'll talk to you." Mac shifted his hold, as Caleb climbed in the bed. Working together, they adjusted Dean's position until he was wrapped up in Caleb's arms. His head rested against his friend's shoulder, his body still trembling from chills associated with the fever. Caleb pulled up the blanket around them both, then started to gently rub his forearms and back—doing his best not to jar his injured shoulder.

His father tended to the wound as quickly as he could—but Caleb knew from experience, it still hurt like the dickens, yet Dean didn't make a single sound. After he was patched up, an intravenous line was inserted in the back of his hand, and antibiotics, saline, and electrolytes began dripping slowly into his healing body.

Mac gave him a pointed look, nodding towards the young Winchester still vomiting in the bathroom, before leaving him to tend to Dean.

"Deuce," Caleb called out softly, bringing up his hand to cup his friend's face, "it's okay. You're going to be fine." The trembling only served to increase; he started a slow stroking action with his thumb against Dean's cheek, trying to warm him—trying to get him to open his eyes and talk to him. "Sammy's okay, too. You don't need to worry, alright. Everything's fine. Dad's patched you up—so a couple of days of having us as your slaves, tending to your every whim and you'll be as good as new, princess." The humorous attempt at levity was ignored, as everything else was.

Dean leaned further into his embrace, tucking his head into his chest. His shirt soon became tangled in Dean's tight fist. The trembling evolved into shaking and only Caleb could hear Dean's tiny whimpers as he struggled to contain his emotions. Caleb could only hold his friend tightly, as he began to rock. Resting his hands on his neck, Caleb barely kept himself in control as Dean's feelings flooded through him.

Like a man drowning in a river, Caleb became Dean's rock—a solid object that he could hold onto until the tide calmed.

After what seemed like a few hours, but was probably only a few minutes, Dean drifted off to sleep. Caleb could only hope that he had felt safe enough to let his guard down to sleep and that the blood loss, fever, and medications his father had pumped into him hadn't done the job for him.

The door to the bathroom opened a few minutes later, Mac guiding a green-colored Sam towards the other bed to lay down. Sam sat at the edge of the bed, facing the lump that was Caleb and Dean. Caleb watched as the boy swallowed hard, then rubbed a hand over his face. Mac tried to get him to lay back against the cushions and met resistance. "Oh, god," Sam moaned, " I did this."

Caleb frowned, glancing at his father-who looked grief-stricken. "What do you mean, Sam?"

Gulping once more, Sam gasped, "I shot Dean. It felt -good. I wanted to hurt him; I wanted him dead. But mostly, I wanted him to suffer..."

-xxxxxxxxx-

Mackland Ames entered the bathroom with a heavy heart. It didn't take a neurologist or a psychic to put together the pieces of the puzzle—but he had to admit, it was a blessing that he was both.

"Oh, Samuel," Mac murmured as he saw the young man collapsed against the toilet bowl. Sam's body shook as the effort of both breathing and expelling food took its toll.

Kneeling beside him, he placed his hands on Sam's shoulders, then pushed him into an upright position against the bathtub. It took all of his professional stoicism not to gasp at his appearance. Sam was nearly the color of the bathtub—a sickly discolored yellow. His eyes were bloodshot and his body was trembling minutely.

Reaching out, Mac grasped one of Sam's hands, moving his fingers to his wrist. Counting silently, he took his pulse, noting that it was starting to slow down. Mac watched as the blood slowly came back into his face as the young man gasped for breath, giving his cheeks a rosy appearance.

"Are you alright, now, Sam?" Mac asked softly.

Sam only nodded; biting at his thumb while he attempted to remain in control. The sight nearly made Mac smile. The scene was reminiscent of the little Sammy Winchester who was afraid but trying to be brave like his big brother. Mac's gentle touch against his shoulder nearly broke him—tears started leaking out of his clenched eyes.

"Sam, listen…Dean's going to be okay. Just give him a little bit of time."

Sam slowly opened his bloodshot eyes to look, almost desperately, at the older man. "Really?" It was said in a nearly hysterical tone. "He won't even look at me, Mac!" Another laugh flew past his lips, "Hell, I can't blame him—I mean, I – I shot him, Mac!"

Mac covered his mouth with his hand, cursing silently. It was as bad as he thought. Mac ran through a list of meaningless phrases in his mind—trying to think of something that would comfort his best friend's youngest son, but came up empty.

"Let's just get you to bed, okay? It'll be better in the morning." Mac stood and grasped Sam by the arms to help pull him off the cold floor.

He wrapped his arms around the boy's shoulder as he walked with him, hoping to infuse some comfort with his physical presence instead.

When they re-entered the room, it was hard to miss Caleb and Dean. Dean was tucked in his son's embrace, making Mac's mind travel back nearly fifteen years to when the boys had been kidnapped by Griffin Porter. He, John, Bobby, Silas, and Jim ran into the frozen wilderness in a panic only to find Dean wrapped in Caleb's arms, sick, cold, and unconscious—all of it caused by a man they all once considered a friend.

And now, it seemed so much worse. The baby that they'd all raised had been possessed and used as a weapon against his only remaining family. Sam walked in slowly, tensing as he saw the end result of the evil that had taken over. Dean was hurt—and it was his fault.

Mac led Sam to the bed and attempted to get him to rest. The boy resisted, just kept staring at his brother.

"Oh, god…I did this."

Mac wanted to tell him to relax/let it go, but his son asked him what he meant before he could open his mouth.

Mac felt his heart skip a beat as he heard Sam say, "I shot him…It felt -good. I wanted to hurt him; I wanted him dead. But mostly, I wanted him to suffer..."

Caleb pulled himself up and away from Dean, moving so that he was sitting on the edge of the bed, facing the other two men. "Sam, it wasn't you…"

Sam just shook his head, "No, Caleb. You don't understand; I mean, I can remember everything. I was watching the entire time—I felt everything, every emotion... I knew what that Bitch wanted to do to Dean—to Jo…and I couldn't stop her." He lifted his eyes to his friend's. "Dad—I mean, he was possessed by the yellow-eyed demon itself and he was strong enough to fight it. Dad stopped it from killing Dean. But I couldn't. Maybe…it was because I'm meant to be evil."

Mac had had enough of that kind of talk. He purposely walked in front of him and kneeled down so that they were eye-level, blocking everyone else from view. "Samuel Winchester, that's enough! You need to stop blaming yourself. There was no way that you could've fought that demon—it bound itself to you. You have the scar to prove it. It didn't allow you to fight back. So, you need to stop feeling guilty about this and focus on what's really important right now—your brother. Damn it, Sam. He needs you right now."

Caleb nodded, "You know that he's right, Sammy. So, stop with the drama queen. We only allow one drama queen in the room at any given time—and your brother has already fulfilled the role of damsel in distress for the day. Hell, you know Deuce, he'll probably milk this for the rest of the week. The ladies love war wounds. Lucky guy." Caleb moved so that he was leaning against the headboard of the bed, then shook his head fondly at his sleeping friend.

The smallest crack of a smile was drawn on Sam's lips. Leaning his head to the side in order to stare at his brother once again, Sam slowly relaxed. "Yeah," he breathed, "you're right. It's not about me—Dean needs me right now."

Mac eased himself off the ground, masking a groan. It was times like this that he felt really old. He patted Sam's shoulder before moving towards the ill young man on the bed, giving his son a smile before forcing himself to switch back to a physician instead of a father or uncle.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Mac noticed that the IV bags of his medications were nearing empty. Grabbing his bag of medical supplies, he cut a couple of pieces of tape and opened up a couple of packages of gauze. Working quickly, the IV was pulled out and the bleeding stopped and covered in bandages.

Dean moaned softly, making Mac glance up. He checked the wound, happily noting that there was no bleeding. "Dean?" He called out, placing a hand on his face. "Dean? Are you awake?"

A small moan was his only answer, once again.

He placed his hand on his forehead, then moved it down his neck and chest.

Sam stood up, "Is he okay?"

Mac stared at Sam, then looked back at Dean. "He's just a little warm. It may be the infection…or just that it's warm in this room." He tried to sound reassuring. "I just gave him a broad-spectrum antibiotic, so I think we'll just keep an eye on him for now before I start him on something else."

Mac stood up, looking around the room for the thermostat. He adjusted the settings, then pressed the A/C button. It was anticlimactic when absolutely nothing happened. "Why isn't the air conditioning working?"

Caleb's laughter filled the air. "Dad, this isn't a Hilton! You're lucky if you've got running water here."

Mac looked absolutely irritated. "This is completely unacceptable. Well, we'll have to make do, I suppose. Caleb, why don't you go to the office and see if the manager can fix that damn thing."

"Okay, Dad." Caleb was still laughing at his father's naiveté as he strode out the door and towards the office.

Sam was chewing on his thumb again when Mac looked at him. "Sam, why don't you help me? Since we don't have any way to keep it cool in here right now, I think it'll be better if we take his shirt and pants off."

"That's a good idea." Sam agreed.

With a steady stream of comforting words and explanations, Mac eased Dean into a sitting position. The change in position woke his patient slightly, Dean now cracking his eyes open. "Wha' r ya doin?" Dean slurred, barely aware of his surroundings.

"It's okay, Dean. Mac and I are just trying to help you. We need to get your clothes off. You're too hot right now." Sam masked his concern and focused on trying to Dean to comprehend the situation.

"No," Dean moaned. He started to struggle a little, gasping when he'd moved his injured arm.

Mac took over, grasping his patient's face in his hands. "Dean, listen to me. We're trying to help you. No one is going to hurt you. Okay?" He moved his hands down to the cut-up shirt and started unbuttoning the remaining buttons. Perhaps it was the 'snob' part of him, as his son would say, but it bothered him to see the ratted shirt—the Winchesters were always full of pride, not accepting anything that appeared to be charity.

Sam moved to cushion his brother, helping to pull out the sleeve on his uninjured arm. Dean frowned, "Sammy?"

He answered, "I'm right here, Dean." Sam's voice was soft, comforting.

"Wha' r ya doin'?" He asked once again; Dean's eyes were blinking furiously as he tried to understand what was happening.

Smiling gently, he answered him again. "I'm just taking your shirt off, okay?"

The words seemed to stir something in Dean. Mac could say that he'd had an immediate negative reaction.

The young man stiffened, then started struggling furiously. "No! Don't. Just leave me alone, Sam! I don't need your help." He pulled his arm away from Sam with a jerk. The force was strong enough to propel him against the headboard. He slammed his shoulder against the wall, then screamed when it impacted his gunshot wound.

Sam moved towards his brother, then flew backward, shocked when he screamed, "GO AWAY, SAM!" Sam was completely stricken as if he had been slapped.

"Dean…It's me. I swear. I'm not Meg. I'm not possessed." Sam tried to convince his brother, following Mac's train of thought that Dean obviously believed his brother to be still possessed by the demon in his fevered state.

Dean grit his teeth against the pain; grasping his arm against his chest to relieve the pressure on his shoulder.

"I know, Sam. Just—don't touch me. Go away."

Mac interjected, held his hands in front of him, "Dean, do you mind if I take look at your shoulder? Just to make sure that it didn't start bleeding again?" Dean blinked—as if finally realizing that Mac was also there.

Mac waited until he nodded, then pulled off the tape and gauze. "It looks okay, Dean. You'll be fine. Do you understand me, Dean?" He repositioned the pieces of tape against his skin gently as he spoke.

"Yeah." Dean ground out.

Mac continued, "You have a slight fever. Now, Sam and I are trying to get you cooled off a little. So, we're just taking your shirt off-."

"No! I said, 'Don't touch me!'" Dean shouted again, now pulling away from both men and fighting to get out of the bed.

He'd made it to his feet, only to start swaying. Sam quickly moved in order to grab him if he fell, but stopped at the look on his brother's face.

It was one he'd seen before—but never coming from his brother. If he could place it, Sam would have to say it was one of hate.

"Don't touch me, Sam." Dean was dead serious. "Go away. Now! I don't want you in this room right now. So, just leave."

Sam swallowed hard, his lips and chin trembling. Tears flew down his face, and he tried to quickly wipe them with his shirt sleeves. "Okay, Dean. I'll go." Mac could see the boy was completely devastated.

Mac watched as he silently walked out the door, only pausing to gasp out tearfully, "I'm sorry, Dean. God, I'm so sorry."

Dean waited until the door was shut behind his little brother before starting his downward decline. It was one that Mac had anticipated, as he'd already moved in order to control the young man's fall. Dean leaned his head back until it nestled comfortably against the doctor's shoulder. Mac felt the body against his start to shake and instinctively tightening his arms around him. "It's okay, Dean. It'll be okay."

Fear flooded Mac's mind, what exactly had Sam done to his brother?

-xxxxxxxxxx-

Reaves hit the stupid bell at the front desk for the third time, waiting to get someone's attention. He rolled his eyes after a teenaged boy nearly fell through the doorway, tucking his shirt back into his pants and wiping his mouth from the hot pink lipstick that covered it.

"Yeah, uh, what can I do for you?" The boy kept looking at the doorway with a jittery expression, making it fairly obvious that he had other places to be.

Caleb smirked, the thought of dragging his feet to delay the young guy on his mind, "Well, I need to get the air conditioner in my room fixed for a start; some extra towels would be great too."

The boy grimaced, "Ah, dude. I just run the front desk while the parents are out…I have no clue how to fix anything or know where anything is. Need anything else? 'Cause you're seriously putting a damper on my evening if ya' know what I mean." His gaze flew back to the doorway…raising his eyebrows suggestively. Obviously, the kid's down-stairs brain was on overload.

Caleb's mouth flew open, thinking 'what the hell?' He was really becoming irritated with the kid. "Uh, yeah! Well, do you have another room then!? With a working A/C?"

The kid nodded, "Chill, dude! Just fill out the form." He tossed him a key from the key-rack behind him. "It's the room next to yours. Hell, if you want both rooms, I'll give you a discount tonight. Forty-eight bucks."

"Fine." It was a good idea anyway. No need to share beds again.

The idiot kid grabbed the fifty dollars from his hand and basically threw his change at him. "Dude, you know what? Just leave the form on the desk when it's done." Then he practically ran to the door he'd come out of, leaving behind a stunned customer.

The squeaky voice could be heard through the door, "Baby, please. I wasn't done. Just give me another chance. I could be better."

After the shock wore off, the sounds of Caleb's laughter could probably be heard throughout the hotel. "What an idiot."

He didn't bother with the damned form. Just took the key and walked out of the main office, still shaking his head in amusement and pity.

Walking back to the room, he nearly collided with his best friend's little brother. The kid was obviously crying, sending him into a slight panic that something might've happened while he was gone.

"Sam! What happened?" Caleb grabbed his shoulders, fear evident in his voice, "Is it, Dean?"

Sam came to his senses, recognizing that he was scaring the older man, and quickly wiped the tears from his face. "No. Dean's okay…he—he just kicked me out."

Caleb frowned, "Deuce kicked you out? Physically? Or did he actually speak?"

Realization struck Sam. Dean hadn't spoken to him, or anyone else, for that matter since they'd left Bobby's place. "He spoke. He told me to get out – that he didn't want me there. But he spoke, Caleb."

"That's good, kiddo. That means he's getting better." Caleb patted his shoulder.

Sam nodded, "yeah", his tone was depressed.

Caleb held the key in his hand—not wanting the runt to do anything stupid. "Sam, take this," he handed him the room key. "It's the room right next door to yours. Just stay there, alright? Don't do anything stupid right now. Just go lay down. Get some rest. That's an order, runt."

Swallowing hard, Sam agreed. "Alright. But what about Dean?"

"My dad's there, Sam. If anyone can get through to him, it's Mac."

"What're you going to do?"

He took in a breath, running his hand through his hair. "I'm going to round up some food for us. I think we could all use a good meal. Hell, I know I can. I gotta check in with Bobby too. Let him know we found the both of you."

Caleb pulled John's –no, his keys now, from his pocket. It was hard, he still thought of the truck as John Winchester's, even though the man had been gone for months now. "I'll be back…"

He walked Sam to the door, watching him open it and go into the cookie-cutter style motel room. Sam went to the bed furthest from the door, then sunk himself down on the mattress. Caleb gave him a half-smile, meant to be reassuring, then locked the door behind him as he left the boy to himself.

As he climbed into the truck, the emotion he'd kept from slipping in front of Sam and Dean emerged. He slammed the door closed behind him and then let himself feel.

He wanted to cry –to just release the pain that had been growing in him since Pastor Jim's death. Since a demon slit the Guardian's throat in his own church. Since the man he looked up to sacrificed his very soul to save his son—Winchester didn't even die in battle, but on cold linoleum tiles on a hospital floor. The Knight of the Brotherhood died on a fucking hospital floor. The thought of it made Caleb want to scream and cry. But he was the Knight now.

And the Knight doesn't cry.

The Knight fights to protect his brothers—any way he can.

-xxxxxxxxxxx-

Dean was utterly exhausted. He could barely move his head –letting it still rest against Mac's shoulder. Mac obviously didn't seem to mind it…he just held him until the room settled into its foundation and slowed it's rocking. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell Mac to pull out the EMF meter in order to check for supernatural activity, but even talking took too much energy.

His eyes felt like they had been glued shut and he didn't want to fight the pull. The room moved again and there was a noise in his ear. It was an insistent type of noise; it may have been talking to him. The noise didn't really matter at that point, so he ignored it.

Time was fluid, the waves running on top of each other until there was no end and no beginning. Dean was transported through time and space unknowing.

Upon his limited consideration, he had to believe he had no idea where he was or what had happened. Dean judged the situation critical enough to risk depleting his energy reserve to turn his head and assess the danger.

To his right was a male body sleeping on the next bed, snoring softly. Silver speckled hair and a muscular arm poked out from underneath the white sheets. The glimmer of a silver ring shown through the darkness.

Dean had to take a deep breath, it was hard to concentrate…something was making it hard for him to think. He struggled but succeeded in turning his head to the left. There was an empty chair next to him.

Where am I? Where's my brother? What's happening? Those thoughts ran through his mind as he fought an unexplained sense of panic. Something was wrong.

He was cold and there was something attached to his hand. From his position, there were only two other ways he could look, up and down. Even through a clouded mind, he realized looking up was unnecessary; he was obviously in a bed and the headboard would be above him. So, the only other option was down.

In an extremely slow manner, he lifted his head off the pillows—although, it was incredibly difficult as if his head weighed a ton—and looked down at himself. White sheets and towels covered his body. The towels felt damp, the most likely reason why he felt so cold.

Slowly, he began to test out his limbs. His fingers and toes were flexed first, encouraging him to try larger movements—like kicking. It took numerous attempts but he'd finally kicked off the wet covers.

They landed on the floor with a soft plop.

Dean smiled, happy with this small accomplishment. He looked down again; just in case he'd missed a towel or something…it took a few moments for him to put it together. To try and understand what was happening—and maybe wake him up from this nightmare.

The harsh reality hit him like a ton of bricks, causing him to start breathing quickly. He'd searched the room once again, his eyes darting from one corner to another.

He gazed at the man in the bed again—fear now flooding through him. Dean tried his hardest not to make a sound, but his first reaction was to scream; the scream was cut short as his breathing accelerated.

Please, don't wake up, Dean begged over and over in his mind. His hands flew to his face, wanting to clamp his hands over his mouth. He was prevented from doing so. Moving his left arm was out of the question, as any movement flared a stabbing sensation in his shoulder. There was a line in his other hand, so he quickly ripped it out using his teeth—wincing at the pain it had caused. As always, Dean only let the pain affect him for a moment, consciously forcing it out of his mind.

He pushed himself further than he'd thought possible, as he sat up and moved his legs to the edge of the bed.

The plea that he'd made earlier went unheard as the man woke, immediately moving towards him in the darkness.

Flight and fight response kicked in overtime, panic overriding his usual rational, if not creative mind. He no longer heard or saw anything but the front door. Even in his current state, it was better than being alone in the room with that man.

Dean pushed himself out of the bed and made a mad dash towards the door—knowing the man was right behind him. He started to scream as he felt the body nearing his. He'd actually made it to the front door of what he'd believed to be was a motel room, but was stopped in his tracks by the locks. With shaking hands, he struggled to unlock the door.

The man took his struggles as an opening, using his folly to overtake him. The man wrapped Dean's arms around his body, tucking both of his arms against his side, making it nearly impossible to fight back in his weakened state. The fact that the man was trying to be gentle escaped Dean as he fought harder.

He was taken down, pulled down to the stained carpeted floor, and held there by strong arms. Dean fought until there was no more fight left in him; leaving him a gasping, trembling body.

His father would be ashamed of him. He pictured his father's face—disappointed at him, looking down at him with disgust.

"No, Dean. Your father was so proud of you. You're his son, Dean. You were his life…you and your brother. He loved you." A voice spoke soothingly in his ear, as the hands that held him tightly loosened and started stroking his arms.

Recognition made Dean's eyes widen and breath quicken, once again. "Mac?"

"It's me, kiddo." Mac moved his body, so that he was resting his back against the door, but facing Dean. "It's okay now."

Dean swallowed, feeling his pulse beating rapidly in his throat. "Where's Sammy?"

He watched as the older man smiled reassuringly at him. Funny enough, it made him start to calm a little. "Your brother is with Caleb. They're in the room next door." Mac laughed slightly, "They must be just as exhausted as we are—otherwise, they both probably would've torn down the door to come in here considering the commotion."

The relief was tangible as he'd heard his brother was safe. It made him quiver slightly, thinking of his brother missing again. His thoughts must've appeared in his face—or else Mac was using his abilities—because the doctor asked if he wanted him to get Sam.

"No." The answer flew from his mouth before he'd had a chance to even think through the question. "It's fine. As long as he's okay…"

Mac nodded, "He's fine, Dean. I promise."

Dean could only nod in return, his thoughts returning to his current situation again. The adrenaline was starting to dissipate, and the pains he'd pushed out of his mind returned with a vengeance. His body ached, his shoulder throbbed, his hand was bruised now and to top it off, he was cold—goosebumps covering his freckled skin.

Mac noticed, getting off the ground to pull the sheets from the bed. Working quickly, he wrapped the sheets around him, covering him. The doctor was especially careful of his shoulder, using one of the towels to wrap his arm against his chest to stabilize and limit movement until it was completely healed. It was a temporary measure until he could get Dean a sling.

"Where're my clothes, Mac?" Dean couldn't keep the shudder out of his voice; he could only hope that Mac would think it was because he was freezing.

"They're in the drawer, Dean. Samuel refused to let me dispose of those torn jeans, telling me that they were your favorite—then he took them to the motel laundry mat to wash them for you. Unfortunately, the shirt couldn't be saved." Mac said all of this matter-of-factly as he helped Dean off the floor.

Dean gripped the older man as he swayed. Mac held him for a few moments before guiding him over towards the bed he'd been sleeping on and pushed him into sitting there.

Once the world had righted itself, Dean opened his eyes and asked again. "No, Mac. I mean, why am I not wearing them?" His tone was harsh, anger clipping each word.

Mac kneeled in front of him, taking a moment to examine his hand as he answered sarcastically. "Well, first of all, you were shot in the shoulder and you refused to get proper medical treatment—letting a teenaged bartender perform the extraction of the bullet in an un-sterilized bar where she not only butchered the job, she worked on you with non-sterile instruments. Why bother disinfecting anything? Since it didn't matter anyway, your shoulder started to grow a bacterial infection." As he talked, he cleaned off the blood from his hand, disinfecting it with not only alcohol but liquid iodine solution. He let the solutions dry before patching him up with a sterile gauze pad. "Then, I believe you went off to hunt down your demon-possessed brother. Thank god the demon decided to target Bobby, otherwise, you might've had to chase it through the country; never once thinking that you might need help, of course. Never thinking to call me or perhaps Caleb?" As he spoke, Mac's voice became slower, calmer, and controlled. Those who truly knew the man knew he was angry.

It made Dean think of Pastor Jim – Jim always joked that his father did 'pissed off' with a passion. Well, Johnathan Winchester had nothing on Mackland Ames on a bad day. When Caleb was young, he used to complain about his father lecturing him to death. Dean would take John Winchester's screaming rages over an over-the-top never-ending lecture by Dr. Ames.

"Well, I suppose those things don't matter now. You obviously hunted it down—but not before it forced its dirty thumb through the wound it had created, letting in even more bacteria and tearing the muscle. Bobby stopped it from killing you, thank god, by burning Samuel with a fire poker. Now, we all know how smart your brother is, Dean. He took the time to care for the injury, preventing serious problems. But—you—you didn't need any help, of course. You left Bobby's place, untreated, and fell asleep with a seeping wound!"

"Mac—," Dean tried to interject.

"No, Dean. It's time for you to listen. You asked, so I'm just giving you the answer." Mac pulled the chair over and sat down directly in front of the shivering man. He grabbed another blanket from the other bed and gave it to Dean. Mac was kind enough to wait for him to wrap the other blanket around himself before continuing.

"Bobby called me, following protocol and reporting the attack. I, in turn, called Caleb to see if you checked in with him—and imagine our surprise when neither of us had heard from you. Your brother had been missing for days! Days, Dean! And you didn't think that you should inform either the Scholar or the Knight?"

Dean's cheeks flushed, and he lowered his head. "I wasn't thinking, sorry."

Mac cupped his chin, forcing him to look in his eyes. "I know that things have been difficult for you, Dean. I'm not sure when things changed between us; though I would have to say it probably started after Samuel left for Stanford. You know that I encouraged your brother to follow his dreams—you know that I wanted both of you to get an education. And when your brother left, I know a small part of you blamed me."

It was hard for Mac to watch as Dean's eyes pooled with unshed tears. "After your father died, I must admit I pulled away from both of you in my grief. I allowed my son to comfort you instead, in order to avoid the naked truth that I felt like I'd failed in protecting my best friend and his sons. Somewhere along the way, you forgot that John Winchester wasn't the only family you and Sam have; you have me, Dean. You have Caleb, Bobby, and Missouri. We are still your family, Dean. And I need you to understand that when you need help, you can always call me. I need you to call me—it's my duty towards you, son."

The tears that had been teetering on the edge finally fell. Dean felt as if he was on an emotional rollercoaster—one that he wanted to get off of. He felt out of control and it was a feeling that he hated. He felt everything start to spiral, but before he could panic, warm arms wrapped around him. They held him and rocked him and told him everything would be alright.

"I can't do this anymore, Mac. I just—there's this hole inside of me and I feel like I'm drowning. Dad—he told me that I had to look after Sammy. He made me promise, and I don't know if I can do it anymore. I'm so tired, Mac." A sob escaped his lips, "I'm so tired…I just want it to stop."

Mac ran his hands through the short hair, stroking his neck, face, and arms. "Listen, Dean. You're exhausted and in pain. Those two things alone can affect your perspective and your emotions. Why don't I help you wash up? You can put some clothes on, eat something – Caleb stopped by the store and bought some soup and a sandwich for you. Then, both of us can sit down and talk." Mac patted his knees, "What do you think?"

"Okay," Dean agreed, a small smirk appeared on his pale face, "but you still didn't answer my question. Where are we and why am I naked?"

Mac laughed lightly as he helped Dean towards the bathroom. "You had a fever of 103.1, I needed to get your temperature down, so Caleb rented another room–one with air conditioning and the three of us moved you in. As for the lack of attire, I wanted to examine you."

"Yeah," Dean boasted, "I know, you just wanted to check me out. Now, you've discovered why the ladies love me."

Mac just patted his back, shaking his head. His boys were all alike. "You need to take better care of yourself, Dean."

Nodding, Dean agreed quickly, wanting to stave away another long lecture. "I promise that I will never let a wound go without proper medical attention for so long, ever again."

"Good," Mac replied, turning his back so that Dean could relieve himself, taking the opportunity to fill the tub with warm water. "But, I was referring to your weight. You look as if you've lost at least ten pounds since I saw you last."

Shuffling his feet, Dean slid towards the sink and washed his hands. "I've been eating, Mac."

He motioned towards the tub, "You need to start eating healthy foods, Dean. Carbohydrates won't get you anywhere alone; you need protein, calcium, and potassium, for a start. You might want to try eating something green, like vegetables. Try taking a multi-vitamin daily, if you can't."

Dean nodded again, "I'll try, Mac." He was too tired to argue with the doctor; it was better to just agree with everything he said.

Mac guided him into the tub, making sure his wound wasn't submerged in the water. He grabbed a hand towel and lathered it with plenty of soap. Dean attempted to grab it with his bruised hand, but Mac ignored the attempt. "I don't understand why you pulled out the IV that way, Dean. I taught you how to properly insert and remove them." Mac rubbed the cloth down his arms gently, dipping it in the now dirty water as the grime came off Dean's weary body. Slowly, he started washing Dean's chest, neck, and abdomen. Thankful for the free shampoo bottle, he poured a small amount into his hands and worked it through Dean's short hair until it was clean. It was almost hypnotic, relaxing Dean until the point he'd almost fell asleep.

He vaguely remembered Sam doing this for him, helping him wash his body and massaging his back afterward. His brother was kind—for once, putting him above his own selfish priorities. And Dean trusted him enough to let his guard down; this was his little brother if he couldn't trust him—who the hell could he trust?

The photo of him – naked and sick sitting on the toilet flashed in his mind. The thought of it made him moan in pain. Sam broke his trust and embarrassed him in front of hundreds, perhaps thousands of people who saw that picture online.

Mac stilled his motions, hearing Dean's moan, afraid he'd hurt him. "Dean? Are you okay?" Mac asked softly. The young man didn't respond, trapped inside his memories. It was the lack of response that pushed Mac to read him, gently holding his wrist in order to get in his mind. The vision was a strange one—one he truly didn't understand—but the one image that stood out was a photo of Dean, in a state of undress. It was one that caused him obvious pain.

Dean's eyes snapped open, "Mac!" He struggled to get up out of the tub, making Mackland work to keep him from falling.

"Dean, listen to me. I had to know." Mac grabbed a towel off the rack and proceeded to wrap it around the thin hips while wrapping another around his shoulders gently.

"No," he argued.

Mac stopped the argument, "Dean, listen to me. Just listen. I was worried about you. The way you've been acting…I was afraid that Sam—the demon had assaulted you."

"It wasn't Sam. And yeah, my shoulder…" Dean didn't understand.

Putting up a finger, he motioned for Dean to wait. "Let's just get you dried off and dressed. Then we can sit and talk." He led the young man to the other room, working quickly to get him dried off, toweling the dripping water before slipping his legs in a pair of underwear and sweatpants.

Dean sat down on the bed, pulling up his legs in order to semi-lay down. Mac helped prop up a few pillows behind his back so that it was more comfortable. "So… what do you mean? What are you talking about?"

Mac pulled up the chair he'd sat in to monitor his patient for the majority of the night. He rubbed his nose slightly, taking a breath before answering. "Dean, you know me—I wouldn't read you unless there was a good reason, you know that. I would never betray your trust that way."

Dean shook his head; his emotions were still wreaking havoc, making him sound like a little boy. "I don't know anything anymore, Mac."

"Yes, you do, Dean. You know me." Mac stared at him until he nodded in agreement. With a small smile, Mac continued. "I needed to make sure that you weren't hurt—in any other way. I was—afraid that the demon might've assaulted you."

"You said that before, Mac. It shot me."

Mac licked his lips and swallowed hard, "I was afraid that it had raped you, Dean."

Dean's mouth dropped open in shock. "Oh." It was the only thing he could think of saying. "So, the naked thing was to check…" He slowly got the idea, "Oh."

Forcing himself to be completely professional, Mac reported that he'd found no injuries or signs of any sexual trauma. "That's why I read you, Dean. I thought that I might've missed something."

Dean's face paled at the thought of the demon wearing Sam's face forcing himself on him. "Okay. I understand." He breathed in and out for a few minutes. "Thanks—for looking out for me."

Mac felt relieved—he had never wanted to hurt him in any way. Knowing that he understood helped, but it was still an uncomfortable conversation. "Now, I really don't understand what I saw from you. There was a photo…but it wasn't anything tangible. You weren't holding it –it was something that you saw. In the photo, you were—unclothed."

"Yeah. It sucked."

Mac tilted his head to look at him, "What 'sucked'?"

Hearing his friend speak that way brought a ghost of a smile on Dean's lips. Mac certainly couldn't pull slang off. "I—uh—It was a few months ago, and, uh—Sammy and I had caught the flu or something. I spent, like three days cleaning up vomit and making sure Sammy's fever wasn't too high. I guess I'd caught it too—because I really don't remember much of what happened. I know that I—uh—my fevers can get pretty high when I get sick. And Sammy –he took care of me. I guess the fever was really bad, so Sam put me in the ice bath thing. I was naked." Dean lifted his face up to his old mentor, "You know, Mac. I really don't care about being naked. I'm comfortable with myself—it doesn't bother me, like the way it bothers other people. I mean, it's just skin, so who cares?" Mac nodded, waiting for him to continue. "Afterwards, Sammy and I were fine. I never thought that he'd—." Dean stopped abruptly, wiping his face.

"He'd what, Dean?" Mac encouraged him.

"He took a picture of me—you know, naked on the crapper. I found it when—a girl gave me this website address. I really don't even know what that site is—but I found out that Sammy had an account too. So, I signed in under his name. There was a, I don't know, a posting that looked pretty funny, so I clicked on it. The photo was posted there." Dean wiped at his eyes.

Mac struggled to understand what Dean was saying. "Your brother put that picture on the internet?" Leaning his head back against the chair, he could only think 'oh, my god.' "Does your brother not realize that you are wanted by legal authorities?"

"Yeah."

"Did you talk to him about this?"

"No." It was simply put.

"Dean, you need to." Mac sat back up, pulling himself to the edge of the chair and grasping Dean's hands lightly in his own. "You said earlier that you were tired—that you didn't want to do this anymore. I'm going to be honest with you, Dean: It's a sign of depression."

Dean shook his head, not wanting to listen. "Great…now I'm a walking Zoloft commercial."

Mac tightened his hold on his hands, stopping once Dean winced at the pressure. "I'm worried about you. Sam and Caleb are worried about you. There are signs, Dean. The weight loss, the sadness, the emptiness you feel…not wanting to hunt anymore…"

Pulling away, Dean argued, "So, what? You want to medicate me? Put me on those anti-depressants that make you want to kill yourself? What, Mac?"

"No, Dean. I'm not going to prescribe any medications. Medications need to be monitored and you would need to speak to a psychologist. It wouldn't help you—and as you said, it might cause more problems. I'm asking you to talk. That's all. Just talk. Tell me or Caleb or Sam how you feel."

"I can't, Mac!" Dean angrily punched the bed, ignoring the pain as it shot through his hand.

"Why not, Dean? Why can't you just talk to us?"

"Because—I can't. I have to be strong. Talking doesn't help, Mac! Talking won't help me do what I have to do."

Mac put his hands out, trying to calm him. "What do you have to do? What is it that's hurting you this way?"

"I have to kill Sam!" Dean sobbed.

-xxxxxxxx-

Sam stared at the discolored tiles that lined the sink he was using to hold himself upright. Water dripped from his face and into the bowl, the sound of the drip overtook his harsh breathing for only an instant.

He could barely look at himself in the mirror in front of him; not wanting to see the person he'd become. The kind of person that his own brother was afraid of.

Dean wasn't afraid of anything. As long as Sam could remember, he was fearless—Captain One Helluva Big Brother.

And now… Dean couldn't stand to be around him.

Knock

Knock

"Sammy? You okay in there?" A gruff voice called out from the other side of the door, "Because I'm telling you, man. I gotta take a piss."

Sam looked in the mirror for a few seconds before wiping his face with a towel and opening the door. Caleb was leaning against the doorway, a smirk on his face – one that reminded of Dean's cocky smile. "Finally, dude! I thought I'd have to pee in the bushes or something."

Reaves pushed past Sam, kicking him out of the small room so that he could complete his business, leaving Sam in the warm non-air conditioned room that he and his brother had rented for the night.

He walked over to the nearest bed, then lay down and proceeded to stare at the ceiling, as if it contained the secrets of the world.

A flush was heard throughout the small hotel room, followed by the sounds of running water. Caleb came out of the bathroom a minute later.

Sam felt his bed dip as his friend sat down next to him. "Dean's okay, Sam."

Lifting his head up, he glared at the older man, "Yeah, right. Dean's okay." He shook his head, angry at himself—angry at his friend—hell, he was angry at the world. "You forget that we had to carry him into the other room? That his shoulder is infected because I SHOT HIM!"

Caleb ran his hand through his dark short hair, staring at the painting nailed in between both of the beds. It was a classic painting—a boat in the middle of a storm. Funny—it represented the way he felt. Always the sea…

"Sam, listen. We've all told you that it wasn't you…you were possessed." Caleb looked him in the eye. "I think that something else is going on here. I know Dean. This—it's not like him, Sam. Something's wrong."

Curiosity made Sam slowly pull himself up to a sitting position. "What do you mean?"

"The both of you have grown up around the supernatural—demons, poltergeists, spirits, hell, even vampires—Dean knows you were possessed. He wouldn't have any reason to be afraid of you, once it was exorcised. So, why would he kick you out? Especially when he knows that he's down. You, me, Mac, and Bobby are the only people he trusts to watch his back when he's down. So, why now?" Caleb took on a look of concentration. "Did anything happen recently?"

"No, not that I remember."

A scream from the next room cut off further conversation as the two men ran to the next room. Caleb was at the ready to kick the door in but stopped abruptly. He put a hand on the door, motioning to Sam to stay quiet. "There's no one else in the room, Sam. Just my dad and Dean. I'm not getting anything else…"

Sam moved to knock, but Caleb grabbed his arm and pulled him towards their room. Sam allowed it. Once they closed the door behind them, Sam cornered his friend. "Caleb. Why did you stop us? Dean could need our help. He screamed-."

Caleb interrupted him, "He's okay. My dad's with him. I think we should just let Mac handle this."

With a huff, Sam threw his arms in the air. "We should just let Mac handle this? Caleb, I don't get you! You've always been the one to talk to Dean—you're the only one he seems to listen to. And now, you're just willing to 'let Mac handle it'? Don't you care anymore?"

A dark look flashed in Caleb's eyes. It was the only indication of his next move; Sam gasped as he was grabbed and shoved hard against the wall—pinned there by the pissed off Knight. "You know what? I'm really getting sick of your attitude, Runt. Every time you screw up, you expect one of us to just clean up your messes. And you know what? I let you take advantage of us—time and time again. I should've stopped this a long time ago; I should've protected Dean. Because—every time we covered for you—Dean was the one who got hurt. He was the one who took the blame."

Sam fought against the strong arms that were pinning him but was quickly grabbed in a modified chokehold. His head banged against the wall in a warning. "I never asked you to 'clean up' anything, Caleb. I never asked Dean too, either."

Caleb loosened his hold slightly. "You're right. Dean always threw himself in the line of fire—but you never stopped him either, Sam. Hell, you left him—just forgot that you had a brother for two years! Do you have any idea what that did to him? Of course not! You're the one that doesn't care, Sam. You just counted on me to hold him together. You even told me to watch out for him when I visited you at Stanford; as if you needed to tell me! When will it be your turn Sam? Dean's been shot. He has a fever. He's hurting, both emotionally and physically. He passed out due to exhaustion and blood loss. It's not always about you, you brat." With a disgusted frown, Caleb dropped his arms and turned away from him.

Sam was about to open his mouth to rebut the statement when a cold look from Caleb made him rethink arguing. "And for the record, Sam…I think Dean needs Mac right now. He needs a father-figure."

Biting his knuckle, Sam nodded in agreement. Reaching out, he patted his friend's shoulder. "I'm sorry, Caleb. You're right. I'm an idiot."

Caleb shook his head, "No, not an idiot—just a pain in the ass." Sam watched a myriad of emotions flitter across his face before he continued, "Sam—just be careful with Dean right now. I'm not sure what's going on with him, but…"

"It's scaring you, too? Isn't it?" Sam interjected.

Both men looked at each other in silence.

Caleb swallowed hard against the lump that had formed in his throat, then nodded. "Yeah. It is. I think we're slowly losing him."

next room

Mac fought hard to remain professional—even though all he wanted to do was gape at the young man in front of him. "What are you talking about, Dean?"

Dean shook his head, wiping his face abruptly before turning stoic—as if he'd shared too much. "Nothing. It doesn't matter." He turned away from the doctor, rolling onto his side to slide further into the mattress, and hid his face in the pillow.

He felt a warm hand on his arm. "Dean. You said that you have to kill Sam. I need you to explain that to me."

For a few minutes, no one said a word and Dean hoped that it was forgotten—that Mac had just let it go. The hand left his arm, and footsteps walked away from the bed. There was a squeak of the other mattress, and Dean pictured that the doctor had just sat on the edge and was staring at his back.

After a few more minutes, Mackland stood up and walked towards the door. Dean imagined him opening the door to walk out—walk out on him, maybe, and it scared him. "Wait. Please, don't leave."

Fear kept him buried in the pillow, he couldn't watch another person he loved leave him again. He held his breath waiting for a response. Relief flooded his body as the footsteps returned to his side.

A gentle hand rested against his neck, encouraging him to look up—to stop hiding and to speak. Mac remembered a past scene like this, a four-year-old Dean who grieved for the loss of his mother hiding, becoming invisible and silent. The memories of working with Dean for weeks with no success frustrated Dr. Ames; his skill, education, and expertise were no match for a baby Sam. Dean's little brother had done what he couldn't—make Dean talk and come out of his self-imposed shell. He had feared that history would repeat itself—that Dean would close himself off to lessen his strong fear of abandonment.

"Dean, look at me."

Dean turned his face away from the pillow and slowly opened his eyes. When he did, he found himself facing kind eyes and an encouraging semi-smile.

It was all he needed. Mac sat beside him and listened—just listened as he repeated the words that had been echoing through his mind since his father had whispered them in his ear that fateful day at the hospital. He'd been so afraid to tell…Sam had left him right after his confession and it left a scar. Dean didn't want anyone else to leave. "I don't want to be alone. I don't know what to do. He's all I have left, Mac. I have nothing else."

Mac ran his hands through his graying hair, "We'll figure it out, Dean. I promise you that." Mac gave him a quick hug, whispering in his ear, "You're not alone, Dean. Don't forget that."

Dean's voice was raw now, his skin was pale and he was sweating. Mac got up from his position and walked over slowly to the bathroom, knowing that his movements were being followed by the skittish hunter. He ran a washcloth under the faucet and wrung it out. He returned to Dean's side, using the cloth to wipe away the beaded sweat before folding it and placing it on his forehead.

"Dean, you and your brother need to talk everything out…I'm going to bring him in here so that you and Sam can talk about this alone. I'll be in the next room; if you need me—just call. Just tell him what you told me. Simple."

Dean spoke dryly, "Yeah, simple."

"I'll be back, Dean—I promise that I'll see you both in the morning."

Dr. Ames waited until Dean agreed before walking out of the room, not wanting to disrupt the progress they'd made by leaving him before he was ready.

He shut the door behind him softly and then proceeded to the next room. He knocked on the door lightly, not wanting to wake any other guests.

"What's the password?" His son's voice called out to him, jokingly; it had been a running joke and constant reminder of the time when John had been severely injured—he'd left his sons unintentionally alone for nearly a week. No one had known where the small boys were. After John had recovered from surgery long enough for him to tell them their location, it was up to Mac to find and care for them. Much to his dismay, John had forgotten to mention a password to him, the slight left him sitting outside a nine and five-year-old's hotel room door for hours. Dean refused to let him in until the familiar words were uttered. After the incident, his son had taken to locking his door and making him guess ridiculous 'passwords' to open the door.

Mac hit his head against the door. This was not the time for jokes—or a reminder of his John Winchester's lack of parental skills; he didn't want to think ill of the dead. His patience had a limit and he'd reached his a few hours ago. "Caleb! That stopped being funny ten years ago. Open the door. Now!"

He heard footsteps quickly come to the door and pull the chain. The door was opened a second later. His son was dressed in a pair of old boxers and his hair was disheveled from sleep. "Sorry, Dad. Dean alright?" Caleb allowed his father to enter, then shut the door behind him.

Mac walked in to find Sam still awake, working on his computer. Immediately, the young man stood and asked about his brother.

Dr. Ames motioned him to sit back down, then sat in the chair next to him. "You can go back to sleep, Caleb. It's been a long day." Caleb stared at the older man knowingly and did as he was told, not wanting to upset him further.

"Mac? How's Dean?" Sam asked again, anxiously.

Mac leaned against the table, resting his chin on his hands, thoughtful. "Physically, he's mending. It will take some time, but he'll back in top shape in a few weeks. Emotionally, on the other hand, is a different story."

Sam looked confused, "What do you mean?"

Mac took a breath, "Sam, Dean needs to talk to you." Sam opened his mouth but was quickly stunned into silence when Mac gripped his chin—forcing their eyes together. "Sam. I'm going to send you into Dean's room in a few minutes. Prior to that, I'm going to give you some instructions and you WILL follow them without argument. Do you understand?"

Sam nodded gravely, "Yes."

"Right now, Dean is lying in bed. He needs to stay in bed. If he tries to get up, gently restrain him—his blood pressure is fluctuating in extremes right now due to blood loss, infection, and emotion. When he changes position, he risks syncope as his blood pressure drops. I don't want you to agitate him either. You are there to just listen. Let him talk. Don't try to defend yourself or give any excuses—You tell him that you're sorry. That's it. You are not to leave his side until Caleb and I meet you in the morning. Do not leave the room. If you need anything, just bang on the wall or call us. Am I being clear on this?"

The face in his hand nodded. Mac let him go, waiting until the door closed before getting up out of the chair. He walked over to the door to chain and lock it, then rested his head against the wood frame.

A quiet sob escaped him, though he'd tried to cover his mouth. His shoulders started to shake as he muffled sounds of crying his pain, frustration, and fear. He placed a hand against the doorframe as if it was the only thing that held him upright.

Caleb quietly climbed out of bed, tip-toeing towards his adoptive father. He'd only seen the man cry a couple of times throughout their life together. Mackland Ames was his rock—his anchor against the storm raging outside their safe walls. It hurt him to see the man so distraught.

"Dad," Caleb called out softly, before wrapping his arms around the trembling body. "Are you alright?"

Mac froze, then slowly turned to face his son. He squeezed his shoulders tightly, before nodding. "Yes. I'm fine. I'm sorry—I don't know what came over me. It's been a very long day, Caleb." He pulled away from his son, wiping his face. "We should both get some sleep."

Walking over to the drawer, he was happy to see Caleb had unpacked his clothing for him. He pulled out a pair of his pajama pants and quickly stripped into them. He walked over to the unused bed and crawled in.

He waited until Caleb was on his own before switching off the lamp. "Dad?" Caleb quietly called out.

"Yes, son?"

"What happened in there?"

Mac sighed, "You know that I can't tell you, Caleb. Doctor/patient confidentiality."

Caleb stared at him through the darkness. "Yeah, I know… At least tell me if we should be on a suicide watch, Dad."

Mac switched the lamp back on, pulling himself to rest on his elbow to look at the Knight—the Winchester's protector. "You noticed?"

Blinking back spots in his eyes from the light, Caleb couldn't help feel a tiny bit hurt at the remark. "Of course, I noticed. You told Sam not to leave Dean alone under any circumstance. Dean's becoming more reckless—taking more chances with his life, taking on dangerous cases alone—without informing either of us. I'm getting worried, Dad." Caleb took a deep breath, "Did I ever tell you that I had a vision of Dean killing himself?" His father gasped but didn't say anything—waiting for him to continue. "I saw him take a gun and put it under his chin. I called him right after, scared to death—that I'd be too late to stop him. He told me that it had been a psychic who had the power of mind control. He promised me that he'd never off himself. I believed him, but the image of him killing himself, well; it's plastered forever in my mind. And I can't help but fear that he walked into that bullet on purpose…"

Caleb watched as his father lay back against the pillows, just thinking. "I don't know, son. I've never seen him like this. He needs help, but won't accept it. I do know, today, right now—he shouldn't be left alone. We'll let Sam talk to his brother; hopefully, it will put some of Dean's issues to rest. At the very least, it'll get them out in the open. I'll re-assess him in the morning." Dr. Ames clicked off the lamp for the second time, the room returning to its natural darkness. "I'll call Bobby. He can meet us here. We all need to talk, give Dean our support."

Softly, Caleb interjected, "You mean, give the Guardian our support…don't you?"

Mac laughed not-amused, "Yes. He needs to remember, he's not alone. He has the Brotherhood."

"Not yet…you haven't given it to him. You haven't made it official."

"Let's us get him through this hurdle, Caleb. He's not ready to be the Guardian, yet." Mac tried to make it sound final.

Caleb huffed, "How will you know when he's ready? Are you expecting a sign? Because I'm telling you, I've got this really bad feeling. I think things are about to get even worse, like end-of-the-world worse."

"I know, son. I've got the same feeling."

The sheets on the bed ruffled as Caleb moved. "Then you know that it doesn't matter whether they're ready or not; the time will come and they'll have to take control. You won't be able to protect us forever, Dad."

"I may not be able to protect you boys forever, Caleb. But I'm going to do my best to protect you for as long as I can." Mac turned to face the door, away from his son. "Good night, son. I love you." He didn't want to talk about it anymore, it was late, and he knew his son was right. The doctor in him recognized the signs of denial, but for once, he didn't care.

"'Night, Dad. Luv' you, too."

They didn't speak the rest of the night, both men thinking the same thing and afraid to say it aloud. There was no rest for the weary—at least, not this night.

-xxxxxxxxxx-

Dr. Mackland Ames' words resonated in Sam's mind as he slowly walked toward his brother's room. "Just listen, huh." Sam nodded to himself, trying to gain the courage to open the door, step inside and talk to his brother.

He'd stopped at the doorway and stared down the door. He must've been talking to himself because a couple who'd been passionately groping each other in their attempt to open their hotel room door actually stopped making out to watch him. A blush spread through his cheeks as he noticed the attention.

Raising a hand in greeting, he awkwardly said, "Hi…uh, sorry." They rolled their eyes at him before finally opening their door to go inside for some fun.

Taking one last breath, he opened the door to find the room dark. His sight cut through the darkness and saw Dean lying on the bed furthest from the door; he was surprised, it was his usual place to sleep. Dean must've been waiting for him, as he was told to make sure the door was locked behind him.

Immediately, Sam followed the instructions, then started inching towards his brother's bed, only stopping to turn on a lamp so that he wouldn't trip on anything.

Once he'd gotten to his bedside, he pulled up a chair from the desk set and sat down next to Dean. Dean was lying on his side, covered up to his waist with a blanket. His forehead had a folded towel on it, making the part of his face that was showing seem ghostly white. "You okay, Dean?"

Sam watched as his brother swallowed hard, moving his uninjured hand to his mouth to wipe at his lips. "Yeah," Dean croaked out.

Scouting the room, Sam quickly found the small fridge tucked against the corner of the room. He walked over to it and pulled out a bottle of water that Caleb had stocked up for them in his impromptu grocery shopping trip. The cap was cracked off and placed on the end table.

"Thirsty?" Sam really didn't have to ask, it was fairly obvious, but he wanted to maintain Dean's illusion that he was still in control. Waiting for Dean to nod, Sam sat down on the bed and helped raise his brother's head so that he could drink without choking. He was able to get down a few gulps, before pulling away to lie back down against the pillows.

Dean moved his shoulder slightly, wincing as it pulled the injured muscle and stitches. He moved both hands to his head, moaning so softly Sam had to strain to hear him. Sam searched the bed and found the damp washcloth on the pillow, where it had fallen from Dean's head. He placed it gently over Dean's eyes, hoping that it would help.

"Thanks." It was the only thing Dean said.

Sam looked at him for a few seconds before moving off the bed and into the chair again. Biting at his thumb, Sam worried...should he try to start a conversation? Make a joke? He wanted to do something—anything, but didn't know where to start.

He'd been so deep in thought that when Dean decided to speak, it startled him.

"Did you think I wouldn't find out, Sam?" The way Dean said it made Sam's heart nearly stop. It full so full of pain—anguish—that Sam didn't understand where all of it could come from.

"What are you talking about, Dean? Find out what?" He spoke softly as if he was speaking to a child or injured animal, trying to calm it.

Dean's jaw twitched as he clenched his teeth, "Don't do that!"

Sam bent over to be closer but spoke in the same tone. "Do what?"

The washcloth was tossed aside, and soon Sam was face to face with his angry older brother. "Don't talk to me like that. I hate when you talk to me like that—I'm not some crazy person. I'm your brother."

Pulling away slightly, Sam shook his head. "Dean-."

Dean sat up straighter, forcing himself up even though it made him see stars. "No, Sam. You don't get to dictate this conversation." Sam put out his hands, having stood up to stop Dean from getting out of the bed.

"Stop, Dean. Just calm down." Sam tried to gently restrain him but was pushed away. Even with one arm, his brother was strong. Falling back, he crashed into the chair, quickly countering his weight before he tumbled to the ground.

He sat back in the chair, hands up in surrender as he watched what little color his brother had slowly fade. Dean was gasping, back arched and trembling against the headboard. "Dean…come on, man. Just take a deep breath. Calm down."

Dean slowly lifted his head, looking straight into Sam's eyes as he spoke. "Don't touch me, alright?"

Sam nodded quickly. "Okay. I'm sorry, I won't touch you. Just try to stay calm, alright? Mac's orders."

At the mention of their mentor's name, Dean relaxed slightly. "Fine."

They sat there staring at each other for a few minutes—Sam did not dare to speak until Dean did. It wasn't worth losing his brother. Dean was still trembling and Sam wanted nothing else but to wrap him in his arms and tell him he was sorry—but he didn't move. Dean was in charge now.

The sounds of Dean panting as he cradled his arm against his chest to alleviate the pain radiating from his shoulder made Sam want to run and get Dr. Ames. Unfortunately, he had a gut feeling that if they didn't have this conversation, he'd lose his brother forever.

Once Dean got himself settled, he asked a question. "You think I'm stupid, don't you? That because I didn't go to college, don't follow all the latest and greatest—I'm an idiot, huh?"

"Dean, no." Sam started, sitting up straighter in his chair.

Dean nodded, "Yeah, you do." He swallowed hard, trying to gain control of his raging emotions before they engulfed him totally. "I know you think you're smarter than me—and you know what? I'm proud that you are. My little brother's a genius. At least that's what I'd tell my friends…what little friends that I did have growing up trying to raise you. I was proud of you—for going to Stanford, you know. My little brother in an Ivy League college. I was—," Dean got a little choked up, "I was mad that you left the way you did. I was hurt that you didn't –you just wanted us—me out of your life, but I was proud. You lived your dream for a while. You were normal. Made friends. Found love. When I came and got you…" Sam watched Dean's eyes tear as he continued. "I was scared. Dad left me and I was alone—I thought you'd understand that, but you didn't. You made me beg, Sam. You made me beg you for your help, then made me watch you walk away again after we dusted that bitch. If Jessica hadn't died—would you have tried to call me? Would you have even remembered that I existed? Or would you and Jessica have started a new family?"

Sam sat silent; Dean may have been able to keep the tears at bay, but Sam didn't have nearly that much control. Tears flowed down his face, untouched as he listened to his brother rant. "I guess that we'll never know, huh, Sam?"

Sam took a deep breath, trying to keep his voice from shuddering. "I don't understand where this is coming from, Dean. I'm sorry…I tried so hard to gain control of her, Dean. But Meg just had me—and I couldn't fight her. I would never have shot you."

Suddenly, Dean's fist connected with the pillow underneath, "It's not about that, Sam! God! I KNOW THAT YOU WERE POSSESSED WHEN YOU SHOT ME!"

Slowly, Sam got up, trying to calm his brother once again. "Dean, calm down, man." He leaned over, knowing that there was a serious threat that Dean might just kill him at this point.

So, he wasn't shocked when Dean threw him onto the bed and rolled them over so that he was on top. "Stop fucking telling me what to do!" As he yelled, Sam was pounded in the stomach. Sam just let him once he realized that his brother's strength was failing. Even though his brother was beating him; it didn't hurt. After hitting him a few more times, Dean just collapsed; his body could no longer support him as he fell against his little brother. Sam caught him and guided him down slowly, not wanting their heads to literally collide. Dean was still against him, unmoving; his face was buried against his neck. Only the sounds of their breathing filled the room.

For a moment, Sam was scared that Dean might've just passed out again. He was about to adjust their positions to turn Dean over and onto his back when the feeling of warm tears dripping down his neck made him freeze. He'd felt, rather than heard his brother's sobs as his chest shuddered against his in attempt to breathe and calm himself.

"Dean?" The situation was quickly starting to panic Sam. What the hell had happened to his easy-go-lucky / laugh-at-the-face-of-danger big brother?

Dean's breath caught, hitching. "How could you do that to me, Sam? I trusted you."

He cried with him, truly not understanding how things had gotten so crazy. "What did I do, Dean? Please, tell me."

"I was sick, Sam. I let you take care of me—I let my guard down. I thought that 'Well, Dean, if you can't trust Sammy, who can you trust?' I was wrong." Dean gasped, trying to lift himself up shakily off of Sam, but found that he couldn't. His injured shoulder was pressed against Sam's chest and he was lying on his other arm. Inadvertently, he'd pinned himself to the bed and to Sam, unable to get back up without help.

Sam was unaware of his plight as he wrapped his arms around his back. Dean refused to be lulled as Sam started to rub his back comfortingly. The 'crazy person' tone that Dean hated returned with a vengeance. "Dean. I'm sorry. Please, just, calm down."

Dean found that he was able to move his face, pulling back slightly so that he could look into his brother's teary eyes. They were less than an inch away—Sam didn't seem to care. His eyes were filled with concern and confusion. "You still don't know what I'm talking about, huh?"

Sam blinked, finally noticing that his brother was in an uncomfortable position. "No, I'm sorry, Dean. I don't." He did the only thing he could do at that point, make Dean more comfortable. Sam slipped a leg in between Dean's and braced his damaged shoulder with his own as he tried to switch their positions. Sam rolled them gently, controlling the motion as to not hurt Dean until Dean's back was resting flat against the bed and he was now on top. He made sure that his weight was off of Dean as he adjusted him against the pillows, then pulled away so that he was sitting on the edge of the bed facing his brother.

Dean's face was a mask of sadness and depression. "Huh. I've been freaking out about this for a month and you have no idea what I'm talking about."

"Well, why don't you tell me, Dean?"

A mixture of emotions flashed across his brother's face before returning to what Sam liked to think of as Dean's 'game face'. "My Space ring any bells, Einstein?"

Jerking back, Sam looked at him in complete surprise and disbelief. "My Space? You're freaking out over a website!?"

Dean gritted his teeth again, he was too tired and in too much pain to fight anymore. "Yeah, Sam. I am. If you have a problem with that, why don't you just go? Huh? Get out of here and leave me alone!"

Shaking his head, Sam struggled to piece together the information he was given. A few months ago, Dean didn't even know what My Space was…why would he all of a sudden be angry over…

"Oh my god," It came out in a large gasp. Sam's hands flew to his mouth as he figured it all out. "Dean. You—you went on my 'My Space' account."

Sam watched as Dean's eyes shuttered, blanking in his façade of 'I don't care.' "You saw the picture." It wasn't posed as a question. "That's why—that's why you didn't want me to touch you, help you get out of your clothes."

There was no answer. Dean merely turned away from him, not caring if the pain of lying on his shoulder was excruciating. Only that he couldn't see his little brother.

"Dean, I'm so sorry. Oh, god. I never—Dean, please, look at me, man. I'm sorry." Sam pleaded with him.

"How could you do that to me, Sam? I mean, I know that we jerk each other's chains –hell, we came up with the Prank Wars, you know? But, I never did anything to hurt you like that. At least, not intentionally." Dean's tone was tired and weak.

"I know that, Dean. I didn't –." Sam stopped talking. There was no way he could explain what he'd done. He didn't even know why he'd posted the damned picture. He was ashamed of what he'd done. "It was just 'friends only'. No one else has seen that picture. I'll erase it, I promise."

Dean's shoulders shook, "Friends only? I thought I was your friend. Well, don't worry, Sam. I'll get over it. So, why don't you just go now?"

Sam sat there open-mouthed. He'd never thought of the consequences of posting that picture. It was just a funny picture to him, taken at a moment when Dean was unable to stop him—something that his college buddies could chat and laugh about, especially since they'd all watched "Wedding Crashers" together. The bathroom scene in the movie had had them all on the floor laughing. When he remembered he'd taken Dean's picture in a similar scene, he didn't even think about how it would hurt his brother to post it online.

"I'm sorry." He said it again.

"Fine. Now, go." Dean gritted out. All he wanted was his brother to go so that he could stop hiding the pain.

Standing, Sam nodded and walked over towards the door. He had his hand on the doorknob when he remembered Mac's warning about not leaving his brother alone. "I'm sorry, Dean. I can't go. I won't."

He turned around and walked back over to kneel beside the bed. "Dean," he started, "You'll never know how sorry I am. I didn't think—I was an asshole. And, I'm sorry. But, I'm not leaving you right now."

"Go away," Dean yelled and from years of experience, Sam picked up on the pain in his voice.

"Dean, you're lying on your shoulder." Sam suddenly realized it and worked to turn him onto his back. "What were you thinking, Dean?"

Dean didn't answer; he was too busy trying to breathe through the pain.

Sam quickly ran to the phone and called for Dr. Ames. "God, Dean."

The phone was answered in less than a ring, with Sam tersely telling them to come quickly—Dean needed help.

In less than a minute later, Mac and Caleb had run in—both expecting the worse.

Mackland, even when dressed in pajama pants, was completely professional. Pulling out his stethoscope, he listened to Dean's racing heart and checked him over efficiently. "Dean," Dr. Ames asked, "Are you in pain?"

The young man answered him with a grunt. "On a scale of one to ten, ten the highest, how bad does it hurt?"

Dean gasped a few more times, clenching his teeth, before flashing two 'fives' with his hand. It was all he could not scream.

After a sharp poke, the world was starting to become a calm shore; the room which had been tilting on its axis stopped moving. It was blissful; the lake was quiet. No one was around—other than the fish and the birds, of course. All that was missing was Pastor Jim, his boat, and a plateful of slightly burnt peanut butter cookies.

Dean felt a hand taking his pulse, but he didn't care. There were voices talking about him. He made out Sam, Caleb and Mac's voices in the crashing waves. The sounds of the seagulls cawing and the quiet laziness of the lake allowed him to relax, let the pain go, and finally sleep soundly.

Caleb looked at his best friend with wide eyes. Worry, fear, and anger fought for dominance and anger won. He turned on Sam. "What the hell did you do, Sam!?"

"I didn't—," Sam tried to defend himself but was stopped by Dr. Ames.

There was a look on Mac's face that Sam didn't recognize at first. It was one that was rarely used on him: disappointment. "That's enough. Both of you." Mac shook his head at them. "You've disappointed me, Samuel. I was under the impression that you cared for your brother's health. If I had known that you'd disregard my instructions, I would've never allowed you in the room."

Sam trembled as his mentor's accusation hit home. "Mac, please. I didn't—Dean."

Caleb snapped, "Dean, what?" He threw his hands up in the air, motioning towards the now drugged man on the bed. "What did Dean do? Because, obviously, this is all his fault, isn't it?" In his anger, he'd forced Sam backward until his back had hit the wall.

His father had stepped in between them, placing a hand against his son's chest in an attempt to calm him. "Caleb, please. Your actions aren't conducive in this manner. We need to focus our attention on Dean."

Caleb pulled away from his father gently. "I just want to know what happened, Sam." It was his duty to protect his friend; he just wished that it wasn't from his own brother.

Sam hit his head against the wall behind him. He swallowed hard, feeling his lips tremble and his eyes fill up with tears. "Dean found my My Space account."

Both men looked confused. "My Space? What's that—some kind of porn site?" Caleb asked.

Sam laughed harshly; his brother had asked his same question before all of this had started. "No. It's just a site where you can talk to your friends online, post pictures, take polls, things like that."

"Why would Dean get upset over that?" Caleb asked as he folded his arms. "I want an explanation, Sam. Now!"

For a moment, Sam thought Reaves might've been possessed by the spirit of John Winchester. His pose, his order, even his expression reminded him of his father. And like his father, Caleb Reaves was a force to be reckoned with—especially when he was pissed off. The Knight had pulled out his sword, and he wasn't going to put it away until he felt the danger towards the Guardian had passed.

Mackland watched his son as he confronted the future Scholar. Samuel Winchester was no longer a small child, one who could be put in a corner when he'd made a mistake. He was a man now—and as a man, he needed to accept his actions had consequences and deal with them himself. Mac saw it now; he could no longer protect him.

"I made a mistake, Caleb." Sam looked at the ground as he spoke. "I—uh—betrayed my brother's trust. When he was sick—well, you know Dean. When he gets sick—he doesn't do it halfway. He was delirious with fever and I had to put him in an ice bath. So, while he was out of it—I took a picture. You know, for future blackmail…or a prank war. I thought it was funny."

Caleb stared at him as if he'd grown two heads. "A picture? So, you put his picture on that…My Space thing?"

Sam couldn't go on, so Mac finished for him. "Dean was unclad in the photo."

Caleb turned away from Sam. He closed his eyes as he thought of how his friend must've felt; Dean was not the most trusting of individuals—it took years to build a trusting relationship with the man.

"I—uh—I really don't know what to say to you right now, Sam. I can't believe you'd do something like that to Dean."

Sam was devastated. "I know…"

"Boys," Mackland spoke softly, "we have to get past this. I know that I don't have to tell you that we need to put on a united front. There are forces who would take this as a sign of weakness and attack the Brotherhood."

They watched as the older man started pacing the small room. "Samuel, you will immediately remove that photo. You will apologize in words and in action. Work to win Dean's trust." The man stopped abruptly. "I know exactly how you'll do that."

"Dad?" Caleb asked. When his father got that glint in his eyes, it doesn't usually bode well. The last time he'd seen that look from his father was after he'd thrown a party in one of his New York City apartments. His father had been upset until he discovered that his son would make a wonderful maid for an entire month. Mackland Ames had paid their maid her salary to supervise his son in his daily janitorial duties. If he shirked his duties, more time would be added to his sentence.

Mac whipped around, "Sam, you will be in charge of Dean's recuperation—you alone. Caleb and I need to meet with Bobby. You will stay here and care for Dean."

"Dad—." Caleb tried to interject but was cut off.

"Caleb. I know what's best. I would not leave Dean if I felt that he was critically unstable, you know that! Sam, you are in charge. From this point on, you will be Dean's medic. You need to monitor his blood pressure, administer pain management pharmaceuticals, and support his basic needs. In order for your patient to improve, he will need to trust you and your medical decisions."

"But he doesn't, Mac! I hurt him—." Sam argued.

Mac frowned at him, "Well, I suppose that should be your first priority. Regaining his trust, so that you can work together in your medical management of his injuries."

"Mac, what if he gets worse?" Sam was desperate. He didn't want the doctor to leave.

Mac had already made his way towards his brother, sitting beside the bed to re-examine his patient. "If he gets worse, call me. I'll instruct you on what to do. I will have my cell phone on me at all times. If it becomes critical, of course, call an ambulance—although I highly doubt it will be necessary."

He focused all of his attention on Dean, asking both men to step out into the hall. Caleb pushed Sam out the door, then closed it behind him. "You can help me pack, runt."

Running a hand down the young man's neck, palpating the area in case there was lymph node activity that might indicate the infection was not controlled. "Dean," Mac called out, trying to rouse him, "Son, wake up."

It took a few moments, but Dean's hazel-green eyes fluttered open. "Mac," Dean moaned lightly.

Dr. Ames grasped his wrist, trying to get his attention. "Dean, can you hear me?"

"Hmm," Dean responded.

"Dean, listen to me. I have to go." It woke his patient up. Dean's hand jerked in his and Mac felt his pulse start to race as the implication sunk in. "Its okay, Dean. Shh. Just calm down and breathe." He moved his hands back to his neck and cupped his face. Coaching him, he focused on slowing down his panicked breaths and rapid heartbeat.

"Dean, I need you to trust me. I'm doing what's best for you. Caleb and I will be at Bobby's and I promise you that we will not leave until you meet us there. Samuel stays here with you until you are well enough to travel."

Dean took a breath and then tried to get up. "I can travel, Mac." The statement was otherwise proven faulty as Dean collapsed back against the pillow, unable to hold himself upright. "Please…"

"It will only be a few days, Dean. I want you to rest." Mac struggled with indecision—he needed the boys to reconcile but was afraid to put his own relationship with Dean at risk.

As a boy, Mac often thought Dean was an extraordinary judge of character—he seemed to know what others were thinking and anticipated their needs prior to expressing them.

"Mac, it's alright," Dean spoke softly. "I understand. You're not leaving me—you're punishing Sam." The last part was spoken with a hint of a smile.

It made the older man smile back. "Actually, you are absolutely correct. And I think that you can find a way to make sure it's a punishment that our young Samuel will never forget?" Mac arched his eyebrow at Dean in question.

"You can bet the house on it, Mac." Dean laughed, making him join in.

A smile was still on his face as he patted Dean's cheek. "You've already forgiven him—haven't you?"

Dean nodded, "Yeah. He's my pain-in-the-ass little brother, Mac. It goes with the territory. He screws up and I forgive him."

"Even though he hurts you?"

"Yes." It was said matter-of-factly. "I have to watch out for him, Mac. It's my job—I promised my dad before he died…I'd watch out for Sammy."

Mac rubbed his chin thoughtfully, "I must admit, Dean. I cannot believe that John would make you promise to kill Sam if he turned—I don't understand why he would ask that of you."

Dean's eyes darkened, "I won't do it, Mac. I won't kill Sam. I'd rather die."

Gasping his hand tightly in his own, Mac nodded. "Well, now that we suspect what the demon's plans are—hopefully, we can completely avoid that outcome. But, one thing at a time, Dean. Get well—we need you at your best."

The patented 'Dean smirk' appeared on his face right before he winked at his mentor. "Yes, Sir!"

They sat together in silence, the quiet a comfort between the two men lifting the weight of the world from their shoulders temporarily. A few minutes later there was a tentative knock at the door.

"Come in," Mac yelled.

Caleb sauntered in, Samuel following behind him looking like a lost little puppy. "We're ready to go, Dad. Everything is packed up." He looked around and his eyes lit when he discovered his best friend was awake.

"Deuce, you awake?" He went over to the bed. Caleb sat on the edge, immediately placing his hand on his forehead. Dean batted his hand away playfully, but still weak.

"No, I'm just sleeping with my eyes open, Damien."

"How are you feeling?" His friend asked.

"I'm tired, man."

"Yeah, you look it." Caleb squeezed his leg, before standing up. "Mac tell you that we'll see you at Bobby's?"

Dean nodded. His eyes were starting to close as fatigue overtook him.

Caleb ran his hand through his friend's hair before getting up. "Get better. We'll meet you there. And you call me if you need anything—alright?"

"Yeah," Dean agreed sleepily.

"Alright, see you later, Deuce." Caleb gave his friend a last pat on the leg before leaving with his father.

He stopped at the doorway, nodding to Sam. "Take care of him, Sam. That's an order."

Sam gave him a sloppy salute, then locked the door and re-salted the lines after the two men had left.

He sat down on the other bed and stared at Dean for a few minutes. Things needed to change. HE needed to change; if he didn't stop putting his burdens on Dean, Dean would slowly burn out.

Quietly, he pushed the second bed until it joined Dean's—he didn't want there to be a distance between them anymore. Climbing in the bed, he made sure Dean was covered with the comforter before flicking off the lamp.

"Goodnight, Dean."

-xxxxxxxxxxx-

Sam woke, gradually aware that someone was staring at him. He tensed, before opening his eyes to see Dean watching him as he slept. It was almost without thought that he visually inspected him for any signs that he was in pain. Sam looked into his brother's eyes and found sadness.

"Dean?" He asked quietly.

The green eyes closed, sluggishly blinking as if trying to focus. Dean's chest heaved heavily a couple of times at the same time he was swallowing.

Sam immediately jumped up and grabbed the trash bin next to the night table, knowing Dean was about to be sick. He placed the basket in front of him right in the nick of time. Sam had to look away before his involuntary gag reflex forced him to join his brother in feeding the wastebasket.

Since they hadn't eaten since they'd left Bobby's Dean was reduced to dry heaves after a few seconds. He didn't move, even after Sam placed a cold hand against his neck and forehead to gauge his temperature. "You okay, now?"

Nodding, Dean pushed the basket away from him, turning on his side and folding himself into a semi fetal position. "I'm just going to go back to sleep; could you just get me something to drink?"

"I'll get you some juice. I think Caleb bought us some orange juice. That okay?"

"Fine." It was said in a gasp.

Sam dug around through the small fridge and pulled out a small bottle of orange juice. He pulled the cap off then poured half the bottle in a collapsible cup. Walking over to his brother, he helped the older man up and gave him the juice. He waited until the cup was empty to take it back. Dean wasted no time in going back to sleep.

Sam put the empty cup on the dresser before pulling out the medical kit Mac had left in the closet. He dug around through the bag until he found the thermometer. It was going to be a struggle, he thought, to take Dean's temperature.

Walking over to his brother, he knelt beside the bed so that they would be at the same level. Gently, he touched Dean's shoulder to get his attention. "Dean?" Sam called out softly, "You awake?"

Dean jerked slightly in fear, his body tensing until he recognized his little brother and the lack of a threat. Even that small shock made him feel shaky, his hands started to tremble slightly, but he was able to hide them under the blankets—away from his brother's concerned eyes. He took a breath, forcing himself to act nonchalant as he asked his brother what he wanted.

His little brother placed his hand on his forehead before Dean was able to pull his hand out from under the covers to stop him. "Sam!" He ground out, clenching his teeth, "Leave me alone."

"No, Dean." Sam shook his head, "I can't. I'm in this for the long haul—you aren't going to kick me out; no matter how mad you are." He ignored the grumbles and griping; as the youngest hunter in the Brotherhood, he'd become immune to the older men bitching and complaining about everything. "I need to take your temperature. You still feel a little warm and you look like you're going to pass out just lying there."

He held out the piece of plastic, waiting until his brother ran out of steam. In his condition, it was only a matter of time…Sam could always out-stubborn Dean. He was like his father in that regard, much to Dean's disappointment. It was probably the main reason he and their father butted heads so much. Dean, well, he was the peace-keeper, the middle-man. Dean always knew what to do in order to smooth things over. He was the one who kept their family together; he was their heart. He was the parent, brother, and hunter all rolled into one.

"I'm fine, Sam. Go away." Dean argued, pushing him away with his good arm.

Sam landed on his butt, but pushed himself back up. "Dean, for the last time, I'm not leaving."

Dean huffed in anger, "Now, you don't want to leave. Huh. After I told you Dad's big secret, you couldn't get away from me fast enough…Whatever, Sam! Do what you want! It's what you always do. Don't think about anyone but yourself. You selfish jerk!"

Biting his lip to keep from saying anything stupid, Sam merely glared at him. "Dean," he spoke calmly, rationally, "I just need to take your temperature, then I'll leave you alone for a while and you can sleep. Give me a minute of your time, and I'll get out of your hair. Alright?"

"No. Now, get the hell away from me!" Dean's leg shot out from under the covers in an attempt to kick him. Sam quickly blocked the shot with his arms, pushing his leg back on the bed.

"You're acting like a child, Dean!"

Right after the words left his mouth, Sam knew it was the wrong thing to say. He was proven right after Dean jumped up out of bed to confront him.

Anger fueled Dean's waning strength, pushing his brother into the wall behind him. "Fuck you, Sam. I'm acting like a child!? I'M ACTING LIKE A CHILD! When the hell did I EVER get to act like a child? When Sam! My childhood was spent taking care of you and Dad! My day was filled with child-like activities like changing your diapers, bathing you, and feeding you. My nights were filled with rocking you to sleep and reading you bedtime stories! I was five, Sam! Instead of toys, I got weapons. Instead of little league, I got target practice. I had to learn how to protect your scrawny ass! So, what the hell do you know about me acting like a child!" Dean pushed him once more against the wall.

Sam's eyes flooded with tears but fought to remain stoic. It wouldn't help right now. He needed to get through to his brother—it was the only thing that mattered. All he could do was watch as Dean pulled back and leaned against the dresser.

His body was trembling against the furniture; fatigue was washing through him—making it difficult for Dean to remain standing. Sheer will held him in place—he was not going to ask Sam for help.

"What do I have to do, Dean?" Sam asked, moving slowly behind Dean. He risked getting beat up again and rested his hand against the heaving back. "How many times do I have to tell you that I'm sorry?"

"I don't know…" Dean whispered. He turned to face the younger man, "I don't know how much more I can take, Sam. I've given you everything that I have. I don't have anything else to give, Sam." A quiet sob escaped him, giving Sam an opportunity to move closer, getting into his personal space. "You just don't understand, do you? You're a genius and you still don't get it? You are the only thing I have, Sam! Everyone else is gone! And every time you hurt me, it rips a hole in me so bad that I can't breathe. You're my weakness. You've always been my weakness…and the demon knows that, Sammy! It knows that. Meg knew it—that's why she played around with me; tried to mess with my head! But you don't help me! You force me to make all these damn promises to you! Well, what about me? Because I will give you this promise, Sam. If I do have to kill you—I'll put a gun to my head and follow you into hell. If we go, we go together."

"Dean," Sam gasped, "No." He moved in even closer so that he gripped the dresser on either side of Dean. If he wanted, he could touch him, wrap him tightly in his arms…but it wasn't time.

"Yes." Dean was serious. "I don't want to be alone, Sam."

"What about Caleb, Dean? Mac? Bobby? The Brotherhood?" Sam tried to remind him of all the good things he had.

Dean shook his head tiredly. "None of it matters without you. It's my job to protect you…and I'll die before I let anyone hurt you. I just don't understand why you have to make it harder for me."

"Dean," Sam cried, "Please. You don't know what you're saying…it's the fever."

"No, Sam. It's not." Dean rested his hand against his forehead, closing his eyes for a few seconds. He opened them slowly, "Don't do it again, alright? I have to trust you, Sam. I have to trust you with my life because that's what's at stake—our lives. We're in a war, Sam. We can't keep screwing things up, because I don't want anyone else to die."

Sam could only nod. "I won't, Dean. I won't hurt you again. That's my promise to you."

Dean leaned his head forward so that it was resting against Sam's shoulder. Sam responded by embracing him tightly. "Spit promise?" Dean mumbled.

Sam laughed lightly at the memory of their childhood antics, "Yeah, Dean. Spit promise." He pulled away and spit into his hand, waiting for Dean to do the same. Their spit filled hands joined the other. The deal was sealed; no one ever broke a spit promise—ever. "But, I'm still taking your temperature."

Dean stared at him. "Dude, you're like a friggin' broken record."

Sam pulled him towards the bed, making him sit on the edge before grabbing the thermometer he'd dropped on the ground. He'd cleaned it with an alcohol wipe before commanding him to "Open."

When the digital device beeped, he was happy to see the readings at 99.0 degrees. "Well, it looks like you're getting better."

Dean rolled his eyes at him as he pulled his legs up to lie on the bed, instantly feeling better in the supine position - his blood pressure regulating itself. "Whatever, Dude. I'm not moving off this bed. Get me the remote. Oprah's on."

Sam arched his eyebrow but refrained from commenting about Oprah. It was a surefire way to get into another argument. He handed Dean the remote.

"Hey, Sam. I'm hungry. Didn't get to eat anything before…why don't you get me a hamburger? A fresh one. Not the frozen kind." Dean flipped through the channels as he spoke.

"What?" Sam asked, confused by the new attitude.

Dean glared at him before turning his attention back towards the television. "Food. Get me a fresh hamburger. And tell them to put on extra onions and ketchup. Oh, and pie! I want pie."

"Is this a joke?" Sam put his arms across his chest earning him another glare.

"No, no joke." Dean adjusted the pillows under his back, sliding into a more comfortable position. "I want food!"

Sam grit his teeth, "We've got some sandwiches in the fridge that Caleb bought. Some soup too. It'll be better for you."

Dean shook his head. "No, I don't want that. I want a juicy hamburger and a piece of apple pie. No, wait! Not apple, pumpkin. I'm in a pumpkin pie mood. Don't forget the whipped cream. You can't eat pumpkin pie without it." He picked up the remote again and turned up the volume. "Anytime now, Sammy. I'm starving."

"Dean." Sam ground out. He tried to speak, but the television volume would've drowned out any complaints. "Dean, alright, I'll go."

He stomped through the room; keys in hand to go to the corner restaurant slash deli. "I'll be right back." Sam closed the door behind him.

Dean waited until he'd heard the Impala's engine purr then pull away from the room before shutting the TV off. He was conflicted: a part of him wanted to wallow in depression while the other part wanted to do what he always did, laugh it off.

Laughing it off had never hurt him in the past.

"Oh, Sammy. You're so gonna regret doing that." Dean leaned back against the cushions, smiling to himself. Grimacing, he grabbed the cell phone off the table, dialing his little brother.

"Hey, Sammy. I just remembered…I bled all over the Impala's seats, so do you think you can clean it for me? She needs some T.L.C. No, a hand wash and wax will do it. And don't forget to clean the seats using the special microfiber cloths. A small drop of leather relaxant will work wonders too..." The list of things to do grew longer and longer.

Ten minutes later, Sam hit the steering wheel with his hand after he hung up with his big brother. Oh, he knew what this was. Dean was going to milk this for all that it was worth.

And for once, Sam was not going to complain about it. As Mac said, it's all about the actions. He was truly sorry for hurting his brother…and now it was time to pay the piper, grateful for the chance to make it up to him.

He didn't know why, but the feeling of dread was only getting stronger. The feeling that if he didn't make it up to Dean now… he might not ever.

-xxxxxxxxxxx-

Five days later

Bobby watched in silence from the couch, amazed at how Dr. Ames could take over his entire home within a few days. The man had even hired a cleaning woman to 'remove the permanent dust fixtures' nearly embedded in his furniture and walls. His bookshelves had been neatly reorganized alphabetically by demon first, then by author and importance. There was even a shelf for 'most used' books, for easy access. Bobby had to admit, there were some improvements: the kitchen, bedrooms, and bathrooms were now glistening. Looking at the changes, Bobby had to admit, it was nice eating in a clean kitchen. Though, he couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten on the kitchen table. It usually was covered in car parts and/or research books.

He'd let Mac use his bedroom, after all, he was a guest. Bobby had gone to his room to get a sweater after a hard working day in his junkyard, and found that even his sock drawers had been reorganized according to color. The dirty ones he'd thrown in there once he'd found out The Scholar was coming in order to tidy up had been removed and laundered. Hell, even the bed was made up nicely with new crisp sheets that looked as if they'd been soaked in Clorox, and then starched. And to Bobby's amazement, there was even a bouquet of flowers on the nightstand, the beautiful scent of flowers masking the previous scent of grease, sweat, and dirty socks. He just shook his head and walked out of the door.

Yes, his life had been high jacked by the illustrious Dr. Mackland Ames, a world-famous neurosurgeon with a shitload of cash in his name and the only living Triad member of the Brotherhood. Mac obviously needed to feel in control and if the man felt the need to 'pimp da house', Bobby wasn't going to stop him. If the new forty-five-inch LCD television and surround sound system wasn't complainin', he wasn't gonna either. The cracks in the roof and walls had been fixed by an expensive roofing company and even the Devil's Trap had been professionally re-painted and glossed over with an efficiency that Bobby ain't ever seen. (Hell, the last time he'd had a leak in the roof, it'd taken the roofers three weeks to fix it; not, a day and a half.) Yeah, Bobby thought, it was nice to be stinking rich.

From what he'd been able to figure out, reorganizing and repairing the house was the only thing that was keeping the man from running back to the shit-hole the boys were holding up in. And if it was hard on Dr. Ames to keep from checking up on the Winchesters, it was nearly impossible to keep Junior from sneaking off.

Bobby tried to keep Reaves occupied, but the kid was less interested in cleaning than he was. Most of the time, Bobby found the young man sitting in John's truck, his hands inching towards the key and almost praying for guidance. Mac had ordered them NOT to interfere with Sam and Dean, making it clear to his own son that he was in charge, for now.

He couldn't help but think they were all about to be in for a change. Bobby might act like the town hick, but that doesn't mean that he was one. Soon it would be time for the new Triad. The tides were about to change, and he only hoped they all wouldn't be wiped out by the tidal wave to follow. The demon attack on Sam—possessing him…Bobby feared it was merely the rain before the storm.

And if Bobby felt that way, he could only imagine what Dean felt. The young man was heading towards a complete breakdown—they could all see it. Depression was evident and although Dean fought hard to hide it, they knew him. John's death caused a major crack in the foundation, Sam possession yet another. He knew that they all feared what would happen to him if the pressure continued. Would he break completely? Or would he rebuild himself into stone, to become emotionally stoic and unreachable? Dean Winchester would be the next Guardian; he would be responsible for keeping it all together. Bobby only hoped that he would be able to get through all of this shit intact. They needed him on top of his game; there were no reset buttons. This was no video game, it was war.

Only time would tell—time and history. For he knew, the war that was coming would surely be in the history books. Already there were stories told and spread about the famous Dean Winchester—not that Sam or Caleb wasn't of any less importance—but in all teams, there was one that outshined the others, someone special. And Dean Winchester, an ordinary man with no powers, visions, or psychic ability was incredibly special. Dean was the one that children looked up to—he would be the one who would be immortalized as a hero forever. A normal man who would fight to save the world. Bobby prayed to Pastor Jim's God that they would be worthy of his sacrifice, for Dean was the one who'd sacrificed nearly everything he had.

It was funny; he would've thought that Dean Winchester would've heard of his own legend. He smirked at the thought of Mac's Geek Squad meeting the young man. Especially Boone Adams's son, Riley…that pup would probably jump up and down like one of those 'fan-boys' excited and screaming like a girl. But perhaps, Bobby thought, it was better that he didn't know about it; Dean was utterly too cocky for his own good…it wouldn't do for him to get a bigger head.

Caleb walked into the new living room, a tray of coffee and snacks in hand, jarring Bobby out of his musing. "Sam just called." He mentioned.

"Yeah?" Caleb asked, "How's Dean?"

Bobby had to hide his reaction, Caleb was becoming too predictable. "He's better. Well enough that they're on their way here."

The younger man put the tray down with a smile…the first real smile Bobby had seen for days. "Thank god. I thought I'd have to knock out my dad in order to go see them."

"Yeah," Bobby nodded, "Mac's lost it." He laughed, pointing to the window sill. "He thought it'd be nice to carve out decorative grooves in the window sills."

Caleb laughed heartily as he handed the man a cup of coffee. "Yeah, I saw him pour the salt in the grooves. I asked him what he was doing and he had said, 'Caleb there's no reason why salt should be poured in a pile along the edge of the window. If there was a groove, the salt would be lining the window and yet still look attractive.' I just watched." They both laughed. "I can't believe you haven't said anything. I mean, this is your house. It's been like this since I could remember—and now Dad's taken it over."

Bobby turned on the television to the NFL Sunday football game. Both men sunk into the couch as they snacked on the chips, popcorn, and cheese crackers Caleb had brought out. "You know, Mac's a good man. He's responsible for the entire Brotherhood now, and it's a heavy weight on a man's shoulders to handle alone. Yet, he's doing it. He's working every day to make sure we're all safe." Bobby took a sip of coffee. "I don't know if I would be able to handle it. Hell, I know I wouldn't be able to handle it. It's one of the reasons why I turned down the Knight's position after Elkins. You see, I'm a damn good hunter—."

"Or so you think." Quipped Caleb.

"Shut it." Bobby snapped back. "Like I was saying…It takes a damned good man to run the whole show. That's what Mac is. So, if rearranging my house keeps him from falling apart—he could knock it down and I wouldn't care."

Caleb munched on a chip, nodding. "Yeah. You're right. I'm lucky to have him. If it wasn't for Mac, I'd be dead right now; either by the hand of hunters or my own."

"Damned lucky, kid. My vote was to toss you and your attitude in the middle of the woods, so you could be raised by wolves. Lucky for you, Mac and Jim stepped in and stopped me."

"Haha, Bobby." Caleb threw a chip at his friend. "Not funny."

Bobby threw a handful of popcorn at him in retaliation, just in time to have Mac walk in. The older man looked as if he were about to have a stroke as he stared at the popcorn and chips that had fallen to the floor. He looked so disappointed at them, huffed, then walked away.

"Hey, Dad!" Caleb shouted, stopping him from leaving the room.

"Caleb?"

"Sit with us. Watch the game." Caleb motioned to the seat next to him. "After all, you did buy the TV, you might as well watch it."

Mac looked around the room, trying to think of a way to get out of it. "Caleb, I'm busy."

Bobby huffed, before finishing off his cup of coffee. "Yeah, we noticed."

Caleb got up, moving towards his father. "Dad, I know that you're worried…but you're driving us insane. Now, Bobby just told me that the boys are on their way. They should be here in a few hours. So, you can relax now, Dad. Just sit with us." Then to top it off, he pulled off his own version of what he called 'Sammy's puppy dog eyes'.

He waited until Mac nodded, before pulling him over to the couch and putting a bowl of chips in his hands. Mac looked at the chips, then opened his mouth to complain. Caleb cut him off before he could start. "No, I really don't want to hear about how much fat or sodium or whatever the hell is in them…just eat 'em. You're allowed to pig out during football games."

"Hell, it's required," Bobby interjected. He pointed his chin towards the sparkling kitchen. "Junior, why don't you go and get us a couple of beers. You should be able to find them, considering most of my food was thrown out." He glared at Mac as he said the last part.

"Bobby, most of that food was expired—the rest of it was so filled with cholesterol, you might as well have just pumped the fat directly into your veins. You do know that heart disease is the number one cause of death in America?"

Bobby clenched his teeth, trying to not say anything. He just turned up the TV surround sound and tried to drown out his annoying lecture.

Caleb came in a few seconds later with three beers. He handed on to his father, then Bobby, before twisting the cap off his own. He sat down next to his father and tried not to laugh at the scene. His father was animatedly lecturing their friend about the dangers of cholesterol, while Bobby just said, 'uh-huh' every couple of seconds—clearly not listening to a word he was saying. The television was so loud that the roar of the audience in the stadium might've been in the living room.

Bobby took another sip of his beer. Yes, this was his family—and he loved them dearly.

A few hours later

The familiar sound of the Impala's engine alerted the men to Sam and Dean's arrival. Caleb immediately got up to meet them. He watched as Sam got out of the drivers' side before reaching over and pulling the passenger side door open. He smiled at his friend, Dean was asleep. His eyes were covered with sunglasses and a small fleece blanket was draped over his legs.

Sam walked over to him, smiling. "He's asleep." Caleb patted his shoulder in greeting.

"Yeah, I noticed." He shook his head fondly. "Let's get him up, huh?"

Sam agreed, moving so that he could wake his brother. Sam gently placed his hand on top of his head and then patted him. "Dean. We're here. Time to get up."

Dean slowly opened his eyes, realizing they had stopped. "We're here." He mumbled, sleepily. He rubbed his eyes under the glasses, then pulled the frames down and threw them in the glove compartment where they usually resided.

"Damien," Dean smirked once he'd seen his friend, "Couldn't wait for us to get here, huh?"

Reaves smiled back, then wrapped his arm around his friend—taking care not to touch his injured shoulder. He had noticed that his arm was in a brace. "Deuce, you have no idea."

Sam followed the older men inside, shaking his head as their friend told them about the extreme makeover: home edition his father had done on the old junkyard home.

They all laughed as they walked in on Mac vacuuming the floor by Bobby's feet. Bobby was glued to the television; not paying any attention to the doctor's cleaning frenzy.

Mac stopped the machine as he spotted the boys walk in. "Sam. Dean. You're here." He walked over to them, giving them each a quick hug and visual inspection. "Are you alright now?"

Dean smiled at the doctor. "Yeah, Mac. We're great. Thank you." He looked him straight in the eye as he spoke—wanting the older man to know how appreciated he was.

"And you're feeling better, I see? No more fever? Lightheadedness?" Mac grabbed his wrist before he could pull away and took his pulse.

Dean shot his brother a deer-in-the-headlights look, making Sam speak up. "Mac, he's fine now. I've been taking care of him—hell, I've practically been his slave. His shoulder gets a little tight, but it's healing properly. I figured that it would be less of a 'pull' if he just wore the brace."

Mac stared at Dean for a few seconds, then Sam. He nodded, happy that they were alright. "Okay. But, I still want you to take it easy until the shoulder is completely healed."

"Yes, sir." Dean saluted him. Mac shook his head but smiled at the antics.

Sam and Dean followed Mac and Caleb into the living area. Dean stopped short, nearly causing a collision as Sam ran into his back. Dean grunted but was able to say standing. "Holy shit! I thought you were just joking about the make-over. That's an awesome TV! And I don't think I've EVER seen this place this clean." He looked around the room in complete awe. "Seriously, the place looks great."

Sam walked into the 'office' area and gasped at the newly designed library. "Wow. That's amazing. The books are organized according to demonology."

Caleb rolled his eyes, "Yeah, the little geek would notice the library first."

Dean laughed. "Nice." He walked over to Bobby, who'd yet to move off the couch. "Bobby."

"Uh-huh," Bobby answered.

Mac stared at him, now realizing that he'd been 'uh-huh' him for the last two hours. The man clearly hadn't heard a word he'd been saying.

In a surprising move, Mac walked in front of the television and shut it off with a flourish. "I knew it! I told you that television would rot your brain."

Bobby blinked as the television screen adjusted to being turned off. "Then why'd you buy it?"

Mac opened his mouth, then quickly shut it. He re-opened it but clearly didn't know how to answer the simple question. "I don't know! Peer pressure, I suppose."

Everyone laughed at his confusion. "So, there was a really hot sales lady, huh, Mac?" Dean jeered, wagging his eyebrows suggestively.

There was an uproar of laughter. Bobby took it as an opportunity. "I wonder what Esme would say about that."

"Esme! I—she's just a friend." Mac blushed deep red staining his cheeks.

Caleb slapped his hand across his forehead. "Dad, please! What about the whole famous 'hormones don't control your actions' lecture!"

Mac became flustered, "It wasn't like that. Keep your minds out of the gutter, boys! And my relationships aren't any of your business, Bobby!" He turned on Bobby.

The two argued back and forth, making the younger men roll their eyes and go into the other room. Bobby and Mac were like an old married couple sometimes. They could sure get into it.

Sam was amazed at the change in the room. He looked up and saw the Devil's Trap that he'd—Meg cracked was now repaired. Sam had to admit, the place looked better than it ever had before. The destruction that he'd—Meg had caused was gone…erased as if it never happened.

"I'm glad that you and Sam are alright, Dean," Caleb mentioned as they walked through the room.

"Yeah, we're fine now. He told me you beat him up for me."

Caleb laughed, "Yeah, but don't get mad, I was just defending your honor, Princess."

Dean hit him on the shoulder. "Yeah, he might've deserved it. Just don't do it again. No one is allowed to beat up Sam—than me, of course."

"You're the only person allowed to beat up your brother. Got it!" A sly look crossed his face, "So, what'd you make Sammy do to make it up to you?"

Dean arched an eyebrow. "Well, let's just say the Impala is as clean as Bobby's house. Plus, I made him buy me every kind of pie in existence. He erased the website, but before he did—I made him put up a picture of himself—naked, of course. The comments some of his friends made—Woah. I mean, I thought they were all a bunch of geeks. This one girl—let's just say, she could've been a phone sex operator—or at least the internet version of one."

They laughed. "I don't think that was exactly what my dad had in mind—but it works. I don't think Sammy'll be doing anything stupid like that again."

Caleb motioned for Dean to sit on one of the newly reupholstered chairs. "Wow. Mac really went all out. Didn't he?" Dean waved his hand at the room.

Caleb sat next to him, watching Sam go through the bookshelves. "Yeah. He was really worried, so he overcompensated. I think he was afraid that you'd…"

Dean stared at his friend, "That I'd kill myself." He finished the sentence for him.

"Yeah," Caleb said simply. "I was too. You really scared us this time, Deuce. The last time I'd seen you like that…you'd just lost your mom."

"Well, I just lost my Dad, Damien. Dad's dead and the demon is going after Sammy—the brotherhood. I just—it was overwhelming. I think I just needed a break or something."

"I can understand that." Caleb sat there for a few minutes, just thinking. "Dean," he started seriously, "I need you to tell me you weren't trying to commit suicide."

Dean pulled back in shock, confused, and upset. "What?" His voice was loud, making Sam turn towards them.

Caleb grabbed his hand, stopping him from trying to escape. "You didn't intentionally throw yourself in front of that bullet, right? I just –I need to know."

For a few minutes, all you could hear were the sounds of breathing. Even Sam had stopped to listen to Dean's answer—the runt had obviously been eavesdropping on them. Caleb made a note to speak to him about it later.

"No." Dean looked upset. "I can't believe you'd think that I'd try to off myself. What, I'm not allowed to get upset? You think that I'm weak? That I'd actually try to kill myself?" He jumped up out of the chair, "I was tired. Hell, I was exhausted—you know, blood loss and all of that. So, I was emotional—so what? Now, you and Mac think I jumped in front of a bullet?"

The comments made Caleb freeze. Of course, Dean would think of suicide as a weakness. He'd been raised a soldier—the only honorable death was in battle (sacrificing yourself to save others). Caleb sat back in the chair. "You—I'd never seen you that bad. I'd started remembering the vision that I'd had—the one where you put a gun to your head—and it scared me. I just keep having this feeling—that you're going to kill yourself or get yourself killed on purpose."

Dean huffed, "We already talked about that, Caleb. It wasn't on purpose. You know that. So, what's your deal?"

Caleb stared at the floor. "I guess…I was just picturing myself in your shoes."

Sam started to slowly inch his way over to them, giving up on eavesdropping and just deciding to join them. He just listened, not wanting to disrupt their conversation—but wanted to be apart of it; to support them—comfort them, if necessary.

"What do you mean?" Dean encouraged.

"I don't think I've ever told you this…either of you." He included Sam in the conversation. Sam probably already knew—he'd given him his journal, but he'd never spoken about it to them before. He hadn't wanted them to think of him, as Dean stated, weak. "The day I met Mac and Jim—well, you know that I was in the hospital, right?" He waited until they nodded. "Well, what you don't know was that I tried to kill myself that day. I grabbed a policeman's gun and put it to my head. I wanted to die. After all I'd been through; I just wanted it to end. Mac—he saved me in more ways than one. Your family saved me—You, Sam, John—all of you…you gave me something that I hadn't had in a long time. Love, a family, the brotherhood."

Dean was stunned, "I didn't know that, I'm sorry." Sam echoed his sorrow. He put his hand on his friend's shoulder.

"It's okay," Caleb patted the younger man's hand, "I was a little kid and it's in the past. I just know what it's like to lose the ones you love and feel like you just want everything to end. And I hope that, if you feel that way, you'll come to me…keep me from worrying, huh? I just—I really don't want to lose anyone else, okay? Especially like that."

Dean nodded. "Okay. The same goes for you, too, Damien, Sammy."

Caleb gave a half-hearted smile. "Deal."

They all clasped hands, a promise made.

"So," Sam said offhand, trying to break the ice, "How long do you think it'll be before this place goes back to the way it was?"

Caleb looked around, "Not long."

Dean laughed quietly. "I bet Bobby is counting the seconds until Mac leaves, just so that he can let his dogs back into the house."

Soon, the sounds of healing laughter flooded through the small house, causing Bobby and Mac to stop their fight and look up. They both smiled together, comforted by the sounds of happy 'children'.

Real change—it was an illusion. You might change the outside of something—but the inside will always be the same.

The End


End file.
